


Once a Runner

by yelp



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Fear, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kindness, Non-Sexual Slavery, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 54
Words: 130,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelp/pseuds/yelp
Summary: "Your previous owners," his new owner began.Hiruma wanted to know what he was good for, Sena guessed, and resolved to make himself sound useful by any means possible. He didn't kid himself that it would save him from whatever pain was in store for him, but maybe in the end Hiruma might decide not to kill him, if he had some long-term value."They ever play you in a team?"What few pitiful examples of his own usefulness Sena had managed to gather now fell apart in the face of his confusion."A sports team," said Hiruma impatiently.It wouldn't do to look too incredulous. If his master looked at his pathetic body and saw some cannon fodder for whatever sport he had in mind, Sena had to show willing.It must not have worked, because Hiruma gave a pleased little smirk. "Good, no one's seen you, then."
Relationships: (minor/background) Kobayakawa Sena/Shin Seijuurou, Hiruma Youichi & Kobayakawa Sena
Comments: 355
Kudos: 118
Collections: Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Genuary 2021, Slavefic Central





	1. Save you the bullet

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to an incredible anon for drawing [this incredible fanart](https://yelpfic.tumblr.com/post/627025512448114688/fanart-for-once-a-runner)!
> 
> Content warnings: in addition to the slavery inherent to the setting, this story includes references to past and off-screen rape.

Sena ran.

His empty stomach churned, his bare feet seemed to find every pebble and crack on the pavement, and his back was on fire where the coarse, cheap fabric of his shift clung to the recent whip marks, his every movement making it stick, then tear free, then stick again. 

That was the least of his problems if he got caught, though. It couldn't have been more obvious to anyone watching what he was, a bottom-of-the-barrel slave making a last-ditch escape attempt. Someone was going to stop him and turn him in. Why had he done this? Why did he always have to be so stupid?

Because he had no choice, a voice said inside him. He was worth nothing, less than nothing if you counted the cost of his meager upkeep. He wasn't a second-hand slave, or third-hand, or any number of hands that could be counted anymore. If by some miracle he was purchased before the dealers cut their losses, there was only one type of person who would buy a cheap, throwaway slave like him. The kind that would make death seem like a mercy—

Sena's thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of running into an invisible wall, throat-first. It took him a choking, stumbling moment to realize that a hand had shot out with insane precision and grabbed the back of his collar, halting him in place. He half-turned, half-collapsed and followed the hand up to the most terrifying visage he'd ever seen, the face of a demon, gazing at him with an intensity that pierced him.

"Rotti's Fine Fleshmarket," the demon read, from the collar he still grasped.

"Please," Sena begged, not knowing what else to do. "Please don't turn me in." The demon was looking him up and down, lingeringly, and so he added on instinct, "I'll... I'll make it worth your while," not knowing what the demon could see in him to warrant such scrutiny, and terrified to find out.

"Rotti's is barely a block away," the demon mused, gaze settling pricklingly around Sena's exposed knees and calves. "No chase. You're worthless to them."

Sena shivered. He knew he should protest his uses, but all he could think was how true it was.

"They're not feeding you." The demon gripped his upper arm now, and the circle of his long fingers wrapped around it entirely. "If I put a burger in your hands, it would snap your fucking twig arms right off. But your run..."

Sena held his breath. There was some sort of calculation turning behind those demonic eyes. Sena couldn't imagine any way this could turn out well for him, but he babbled, "I'm obedient, I've never run, I mean I wouldn't ever run, please..."

The calculations seemed to have come to an end, and the final sum caused the demon's face to light up in glee. Sena shivered, and changed his mind: this face was ten times more terrifying when it was smiling. Against his protests, the demon began to drag him back the way he'd just fled from, back to Rotti's. It was true, he was in poor shape: food was a distant memory, and his torn-up back was making its complaints heard now that the wild adrenaline was wearing off. He didn't have any energy to resist, and found himself stumbling helplessly along, rather than be dragged.

Rotti met them at the entrance, where he took one look at the demon's face, his possessive hand wound around Sena's arm, and gamely tried, "Ah, good sir, you have found my valued merchandise—"

"What, this garbage you left out for curbside pickup?" cackled the demon. "If I save you the bullet, I'm doing you a fucking favor."

"Okay, all right." Either Rotti had decided Sena wasn't worth the hassle of arguing, or he really was grateful to be spared the cost of putting him down. "He's yours, I'll have my man draw up the papers. But only because you're such a valued customer, Hiruma," he couldn't help but throw over his shoulder, as he waved for some assistants to come help. "We look forward to your continued business..."

Hiruma paid the man no mind, and looked down at his new acquisition, his grin seeming to get even wider, and even pointier. "Yes, you'll be just the thing."


	2. End of the road

Tetsuma showed up right on time, as always, but it still felt way too early to Kid. He would have delayed this conversation for years if he could. 

As it was, Hiruma would be here any minute now, and that meant he'd already put it off long enough. He made another tally on the inventory, set his clipboard down, and dove into the speech he had prepared.

"Tetsuma, your family has been serving mine for generations now. You have been with me for my entire life. That's why, before all this happens, I want to set you free."

Kid looked up past the brim of his hat, into Tetsuma's face, to gauge his reaction. It was a life-changing offer, and not one he made lightly. This was a gray area, where Hiruma could argue that Tetsuma wasn't Kid's to give away, not anymore. But if Tetsuma was gone by then, even Hiruma would be hard-pressed to do anything about it.

Well, to Tetsuma, at least.

Tetsuma's expression didn't change notably, but his shoulders had tensed up, just a little. He was confused. 

"We don't know what kind of terms the devil's going to set," Kid explained gently. "But with the state of our finances, I don't have much room to negotiate. Hiruma... is not a merciful man. If nothing else, losing the Best Quarterback title to me three years running has got to give him a bit of a grudge." He quirked his lips up, attempting to inject some humor, then shook his head. "A situation like this never ends well. I don't want to see you caught up in it."

Tetsuma processed this, and seemed to relax. "No," he said simply, and picked up the clipboard Kid had put down.

"But—" 

But Tetsuma had already wandered away, to the artwork that Kid had been inventorying earlier. After staring after him for a long moment, Kid took off his hat and sighed. Trust Tetsuma to brush off a major decision like this and simply continue with his duties, as if the thought of freedom meant nothing to him. 

A part of him felt grateful to have Tetsuma at his side through this, but he knew nothing good could come of a selfish feeling like that. He only hoped that he could get Hiruma to see reason—

"Speak of the devil," he muttered to himself, as he suddenly heard the sound of a very loud, very fast engine tearing its way down the road. Sure enough, from the window, he could see a red car zoom down the vast length of the estate's driveway, and come to a screeching halt by the fountain: a mounted, rearing cowboy pointing a pistol into the air, that now shot nothing. The fountain had been dry for months, though it and the other outside ornaments had been some of the last things they'd stubbornly tried to upkeep. For appearances' sake.

Hiruma emerged from the driver's seat, walked a few steps toward the house, then turned, frowned. Pointed impatiently to the ground at his feet. Instantly, the passenger side door opened, and a scrawny slave, beaten and rake thin, scrambled out and crawled over, to kneel at the position indicated. 

Seemingly satisfied, Hiruma marched up the front steps and slammed open the door as if he owned the place. Which, to be fair, he all but did, at this point.

Once, a servant would have met him there. Instead, there was only Kid, who opened his mouth to speak, but got caught on the awkwardness of it. He'd never met Hiruma as anything but an equal before. Now he didn't even know how to address him.

"Tetsuma! Bring... our guest... something to drink. Whiskey?" 

Hiruma nodded, and pointed to a nearby corner, at which point the scrawny slave hastily detached himself from Hiruma's heel and crawled over to kneel there, eyes downcast, balancing himself on trembling arms. For a long moment, Kid tried to convince himself that he was a good enough man to offer the slave some water at least. But there was no sense antagonizing Hiruma. Not today, of all days.

The two of them sat at the table with their glasses, Tetsuma standing rigidly in place behind Kid's left shoulder, Hiruma pulling a stack of papers from his briefcase with a grin and a flourish. "The terms," he said, plunking it down between them. So he wasn't even going to pretend this was a negotiation. Kid supposed there was no benefit to such niceties anyway. He pulled the papers to him and read, mumbling the important parts aloud, mostly for Tetsuma's benefit.

"...Lender, Hiruma, will pay the full amount owed by Debtor, Mushanokouji, in the amount of..."

"...Lender will take ownership of Mushanokouji Estate, along with all people, assets, and property associated... along with future income from Estate until debt and capital investment have been repaid to Lender including interest rate of..."

Kid couldn't help but let out a breath. Hiruma could have dismantled Kid's family home, had it sold for parts, if he didn't think it would be a good return on his investment. Hell, he could've done it just because, if he was feeling petty.

"...Debtor will become slave and property to Lender," Kid forced himself not to wince at that. It was no less than he expected. "Debtor will continue to run Estate and have direct and sole supervision over staff thereof..."

Kid stopped reading and looked up. Hiruma was idly twirling a pen in his fingers and drinking his whiskey, by all appearances completely uninterested in the proceedings. Even rereading the paragraph several times didn't unearth any hidden meanings he might have missed. He would be selling himself into slavery, but Tetsuma, and the other slaves, would still be under his supervision. Hiruma would own everything, technically, but in terms of direct contact, in terms of day-to-day operations, and discipline... 

With some effort, Kid forced himself not to look at the slave still huddled in the corner, terrified to break from a kneel, though the floor must be killing his knees by now. 

The contract meant Kid would be a buffer between his own slaves, at least, and Hiruma's reign of terror. He could protect them. He could protect Tetsuma. 

For that clause alone, it was too good a deal to pass up. And if he knew anything about Hiruma, he would bet that Hiruma knew it too.

For the sake of due diligence, he finished reading the rest of it, summarizing the relevant bits for Tetsuma. He had barely gotten to the end before Hiruma shot the pen at him with a flick of his wrist. If Kid had considered trying to haggle with him before, he knew there was no chance now. He couldn't risk losing what was currently on the table. He caught the pen smoothly, and signed away his freedom. 

After the contract and pen both disappeared into the depths of Hiruma's briefcase, the other man downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, and stood, beaming with glee. 

Kid tensed, unsure if he needed to kneel now, mentally preparing himself for some other equally humiliating order. 

Instead, Hiruma pointed to the slave in the corner. "Get him cleaned up. Wrap his wounds or whatever. I'll be back for him in an hour."

The slave looked up, wide-eyed, but Hiruma didn't spare a backward glance for any of his possessions. He only stopped at the door to add, "Watch out, he's a runner." 

Then he left, chuckling to himself.


	3. Bathtub 1

Sena had nearly dozed off in the corner, body too exhausted to keep up with the events of the day. He was sure he hadn't, but he still couldn't figure out how his new master had disappeared so abruptly, leaving him with this cowboy, and his giant machine-man of a slave. 

Well, it sounded like they were both slaves now. 

He wasn't sure what he had expected, after being taken from the market, but it wasn't this. If anything, he would have thought he'd be chained up in some soundproof basement by now. Instead, the cowboy, whose name seemed to be Mushanokouji, or maybe Kid, tipped his hat at him, like the equivalent of a shrug. "Reckon we'd better get you cleaned up. This way." 

"Yes, sir," said Sena quietly, trying to ease his stiff body into a crawl. The mansion had already seemed huge from the outside, but it especially felt huge on his hands and knees, crawling through what seemed like endless hallway. To distract himself, he tried to look around as he went, get a sense of his surroundings, but all he saw was faded carpet, and expansive walls lined with rectangles of off-colored wallpaper, as if they used to be covered with paintings or portraits now gone. 

Kid stopped at the foot of some stairs and looked down at him, seemingly on the verge of saying something. Then he changed his mind and made his way up, leaving Sena to crawl after him.

In the bathroom, a bath was running, but Tetsuma, who'd been sent to start it, was nowhere to be seen. That meant he was alone in the room with Kid, a fact underscored by Kid's shutting the bathroom door, and gesturing to the tub expectantly. Sena swallowed. He wasn't sure what he was meant to do if Kid tried something. Was he supposed to please the man he'd been put in the charge of, or would Hiruma expect him to defend himself? There was no way he could, obviously, but that hadn't mattered in the past. 

For now, Sena focused on doing what he could to placate the man in front of him, and worked on pulling his ragged clothing off. When he tried to get it over his head, it pulled on the open welts on his back, and he couldn't help but let out a soft cry.

Immediately, Kid reached out, and Sena shrank back, sure he had done it this time, failed a basic instruction and tried the other man's patience. But Kid just gestured for him to stop. "You might as well get in with your clothes on. A good soak will help get it unstuck. Hell, I reckon it needs a wash as much as the rest of you."

Sena nodded quickly and crawled his way to the tub, plunging his hands in with barely any hesitation. The water was shockingly warm, and he was actually eager to get the rest of his body in, almost melting into the sensation as he was enveloped by the warm bath, his first in longer than he could remember, well worth the sharp sting of his wounds. 

Kid busied himself rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out some bandages and things, as if to let Sena have a few minutes with the bath. Then he came over, rolled up his sleeves, and began to help gently, if not painlessly, ease the stuck fabric from Sena's back. When it was done, he stared at the whip marks for a long time, long enough that Sena started to worry about his intentions again. 

"The contract that I signed with Hiruma today..." Kid began, a serious expression on his face, Sena's dirty, sodden shift still clutched in his hand. He trailed off, until Sena darted a questioning glance up at him, then away. "He's letting me have the run of this place. I answer directly to him, but the rest of everyone here, still answers to me. If you want, I could... try to ask him for you. Try to protect you, here."

Not wanting to miss some instruction, Sena had been following the meandering speech with his full attention, but the end still caught him by surprise. It sounded like Kid, who wasn't in that stable a position himself, was offering to stick his neck out to help him. But why would he do that? It didn't make sense.

"You can't," Sena found himself saying. "Master just bought me," which wasn't exactly right—no money had changed hands. He wasn't worth a cent, much less worth Kid risking whatever standing he currently had. "Right before we came here. I'm sure he has something he wanted me for. I don't think he'll give me up before that."

Silence from above him, and Sena looked up in a panic, sure he'd said something wrong. But if Kid was frowning, it was in deep thought, not anger. 

"So that's why he's still got you in that collar," Kid said, touching the collar on Sena's neck, the one that said Rotti's. "All these marks on you, he didn't..."

Not wanting to risk tipping Kid over into anger, if he was close, Sena just shook his head minutely.

"Well hell," Kid sighed, "why do I feel like I've just been duped?"

Sena tensed, but Kid didn't say anything else, just handed him the shampoo, and backed off. As Sena washed himself, he found himself relaxing slightly in the luxurious warm bath, in a way he couldn't have, had his— _their_ —master still been around. He knew he wasn't safe, not by a long shot, but Kid had tried to help him, and what's more, he had just seen Kid's freeman status stripped from him, and couldn't help but feel like they were in the same boat. Sort of.

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly, not sure if Kid would hear him.

"Just following orders, apparently," said Kid, with a rueful smile that Sena didn't quite understand.


	4. Homecoming

Home for Hiruma turned out to be something of a fortress. The squat house itself wasn't nearly as massive as the mansion they had just left, but it was surrounded by an imposing metal fence with actual turrets that looked suspiciously weaponized. 

In other words, Sena's anxiety already wasn't doing great by the time they rolled to a stop. This time, he quickly made to get out, so he'd be ready to follow his master, but he'd only put a hand on the door handle when Hiruma stopped him. 

Oh no. He felt his heart start to race. What had he done wrong, in the short drive back? Was he supposed to stay in the car until given permission? Hiruma hadn't hurt him so far, maybe this was the signal for the pain to start, now that they were back on his own territory? 

Flattening himself against the car seat, Sena closed his eyes and waited, but Hiruma tapped the side of his head and said, "Look at me, shrimp." 

Sena nervously turned his gaze to the point of Hiruma's chin. 

"Good enough. When you're outside this fence, you crawl. I don't want anyone seeing those fucking legs of yours at work. In here, though, you walk on your feet, not your knees. Got it?"

Sena couldn't say he remotely understood why, but as rules went, it was simple enough to follow. He nodded vigorously, and at Hiruma's shooing motion, got out, on his feet, and cautiously walked his way toward the front door. The whole way, he could feel Hiruma's gaze on him, as if daring him to mess this up. 

Once Hiruma seemed satisfied that his new slave had basic language comprehension, he got out too, hooked a couple bags from the trunk, along with his briefcase, and then walked up to punch codes into an improbable number of keypads to unlock the double front door. Sena already knew he wasn't getting out of here alive, but this just felt like overkill. 

For some reason, he had expected that Hiruma owned a bunch of other slaves, but it was eerily silent inside, just the two of them. Unless the other slaves were locked away somewhere. Or dead already? Sena gulped deep breaths and tried to focus on obeying and not ending up like the other slaves in his imagination. Hopefully only in his imagination. 

Hiruma took him to some sort of sitting room, lined wall to wall with bookshelves, and motioned him to a chair at the table, which Sena hesitantly perched on, expecting to be hit at any moment, if this was a test. When no blow came, he guessed that maybe there was also a sit/kneel rule in place alongside the walk/crawl rule? He hoped Hiruma clarified before he had a chance to mess it up. 

"How did it go with Kid," said Hiruma, grabbing the opposite chair and turning it on a leg so he could straddle it, and fix Sena with the full intensity of his gaze. "Did he get all your fucking injuries?"

"Y... yes, master?"

"Did he feed you?"

"No, master," said Sena, more confidently this time. Any slave would know better than to eat without permission, and Sena could already tell that his master planned to strictly limit his intake. It was the second time Hiruma had checked to make sure he hadn't eaten anything. Sena had the sinking feeling that, whatever awaited him here, it wasn't going to be a full belly. But at least he knew the right answer to that one.

"Did he fuck you?"

Sena's jaw dropped open, before he remembered how urgent it was that he respond, and to this question in particular. "No, master! No, I would never... please..." A sudden jolt of pain on his bruised knees made him realize he'd fallen to them. He put his head down and tried to breathe, tried to decide if there was a way to convince Hiruma of his innocence, or if it would only make the matter worse.

There was a long, gut-wrenching silence, before he heard his master getting up, walking toward him. Sena braced himself for punishment, but instead there was just the sound of something soft set in front of his bowed head. When he dared to look up, he saw that it was the shopping bags that Hiruma had carried in earlier. 

"Just checking," said his master, kicking one of the bags lightly, so it tipped over. Fabric slithered out. "While you were there, I went shopping. Put on one of everything, and meet me in the kitchen."

Sena waited, shivering, for the sound of the footsteps to fade down the hallway, and then a door to open and close, before he dared to get up. Cautiously, he looked into the bags. The clothing seemed new, and roughly his size. Surely, if Hiruma meant to punish him, he wouldn't have him put on brand new clothes first? Or was he meant to ruin them, and be punished for that too?

He willed himself not to think, just take off his dirty shift and put on the first of each thing he saw. He didn't see there was underwear at the bottom of the bag until he already had pants on, and hastily took them off to fix his mistake. He found socks too, and a shoe box containing athletic sneakers, and briefly thought about putting on just one of each, before deciding he had to assume that Hiruma meant a pair. Then he spent several precious seconds digging around in the bags, trying to see if there was something he'd missed, some small garment at the bottom, or tucked into some other clothing, to trick him into failing his order. 

When he had looked as thoroughly as he could, he folded everything else back up, put it back in the bags, laid out his dirty shift on top of them, and went to find the kitchen. He hadn't received directions, but it was easy to follow his nose. He could smell something heavenly cooking, or at least heavenly to his empty stomach, which at this point would have been pathetically grateful for some of the stale crusts that had been the standard, if infrequent, fare at the market. He tried to enter the kitchen as quietly as he could, but Hiruma still noticed and turned from the stove, sporting an incongruous pink apron and holding a spatula. 

Hiruma's eyes scanned Sena's body again, and Sena forced himself to hold still. Apparently he passed inspection, because Hiruma pointed the spatula at a nearby chair, which was at a table with a glass of water on it. 

Cautiously, Sena sat, and then stared the water glass down, as though it might hold the answer to everything.

"Drink," said Hiruma impatiently, and then, "Slowly," when Sena jumped to obey. 

Sena tried to sip as slowly as possible, but the cool water was delicious to his parched throat. If nothing else, it was a blessing to be able to fill his stomach with something, and he needed to save it for a distraction once Hiruma started eating right in front of him. If it was another master he might have hoped for some scraps from Hiruma's leftovers at the end, but from the earlier questioning, Sena could only assume food would be a rare reward, if that. He didn't think he'd done anything particularly reward-worthy yet. 

So, when Hiruma dumped the contents of his skillet onto a waiting bowl of rice, and put it in front of Sena, he was at a loss. Was it meant to be torture? That was the most likely explanation he could come up with. It looked like some kind of stir-fry, with big, saucy pieces of meat, and fresh vegetables. The aroma, amplified by his hunger, was so tempting, it almost physically pulled him in. When he knew he wouldn't be able to resist much longer, he said, in a small voice, almost hoping not to be heard, "Master?'

Hiruma looked up from where he was rinsing the pan, picked up a fork, and advanced. Now Sena had done it. He had failed the test and he was going to be stabbed full of tiny holes—

The fork, when it was thrust at him, came handle-first. 

"Eat," said Hiruma. "Don't fucking make yourself sick, there'll be more later."

Sena didn't have to be told twice. He took bites as quickly as he could, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the food to be taken from him, waiting to be struck, but wanting to get as much food in him as he could before it happened. 

Dimly, part of him processed the idea that there would be more later. It suggested that Hiruma planned to keep him alive for at least another meal. If Hiruma was a one-meal-a-day kind of master, Sena might live to see tomorrow at least. Judging by the generous portion he'd been given though, maybe it would be less frequent, and he might live into the next week. He wasn't sure yet if that was good news or bad news, honestly.

"Let's get one thing straight," said Hiruma, sitting down across from him, still in his terrifying pink apron. "Here, I handle the training." Sena nodded vigorously. Yes, training, he understood. "Food, rewards, you need a damn hug or something, that all comes from the fatty." This part, Sena didn't quite follow, but kept eating. "He won't be back until tomorrow, so for now it can't be helped. But don't get used to this."

"Yes, master," said Sena, though he wasn't sure what it was he wasn't supposed to get used to.

"He's going to be real happy to have you," Hiruma added, leaning back way too far in his chair. "You just wait."


	5. 40 Yards

Against all expectations, Sena was allowed to finish it all, or at least, he wasn't stopped, not even when his fork clicked against the bottom of the bowl. Keeping an eye on his master, he delicately scraped up the last few grains of rice, but decided it was too risky to lick up the sauce.

Hiruma seemed engrossed with his phone, occasionally typing something rapidly with his thumbs and then cackling evilly. Maybe it was only in his distraction that he'd allowed Sena to eat so much. Maybe when he realized that it was all gone, Sena would be in for it. The meal turned into a ball of lead in Sena's stomach, but he tried to calm himself with the thought that he'd come expecting punishment. To have gotten an actual meal out of it was nothing but a bonus, really.

All too soon, Hiruma put the phone away and leaned forward, letting all four of his chair legs rest back on the floor. "All right, shrimp," he said, and Sena nodded to show he was listening, even as he clutched his hands together in terror. "You're fed, you're clean, you need to take a leak before we start?"

His earlier dread came back to him in a flood. Whatever Hiruma had in mind, Sena definitely wasn't ready to start. He considered if he could possibly delay the inevitable by going to the bathroom, but he wasn't sure if it was a real offer. Instead, he shook his head, too terrified to speak.

"Your previous owners," his current owner began.

Hiruma wanted to know what he was good for, Sena guessed, and resolved to make himself sound useful by any means possible. He didn't kid himself that it would save him from whatever pain Hiruma had in mind for him, but maybe at the end, Hiruma might decide not to kill him, if he had some long-term value. 

"Did they ever play you in a team?"

What few pitiful examples of his own usefulness Sena had managed to gather now fell apart in the face of his confusion.

"A sports team," said Hiruma impatiently. 

It wouldn't do to look too incredulous. If his master looked at his pathetic body and saw some cannon fodder for whatever sport he had in mind, Sena had to show willing.

It must not have worked, because Hiruma gave a pleased little smirk. "Good, no one will have seen you, then. Where did you learn to run?"

Sena choked, and found he couldn't get an answer out. If he'd thought he could sell his master on his good points, he was fooling himself. Hiruma had met him as a runaway. A flight risk slave wasn't useful for anything that didn't involve being chained down—

When Hiruma's hand slammed down on the table, shockingly loud, Sena became aware that he'd been babbling pitifully, begging pleas and promises he couldn't hope to deliver. Distantly, Sena thought he should be grateful he was too far away to get hit instead of the table. For now. He put his hands over his mouth to stopper the flow of nonsense. His master had already judged him. It was over.

"I meant," said Hiruma slowly, "how did you learn to run so fast?"

For a moment the words didn't resolve into any meaningful question besides the deadly one, and Sena panicked that he wasn't going to be able to understand what he was being asked, much less answer it. 

His master leaned back in his chair again, and began to study the ceiling, and for some reason it helped, not to have the full intensity of that terrible gaze directed right at him.

"I, um, I had some practice?"

"How?"

Sena hadn't expected that to be the right answer, much less to be pressed on it. He looked down at his clenched hands. "I, I had an owner, who liked to play, um, this game? He would have me run, and try to chase me. Obviously I was on his property the whole time, the woods were fenced in, I wasn't really running to get away, master!" Sena looked up, but Hiruma was still staring at the ceiling, looking unconcerned. "Um, but sometimes if I managed to outrun him, I wouldn't be... I mean he still could do whatever he wanted, but I think he wanted to encourage me to run faster, for the game, so, sometimes he'd let me get away, and I wouldn't be hurt that day, so I... guess I tried really hard."

The scrape of a chair pushing back from the table startled him out of dark memories.

"All right, we're done." Hiruma pulled off his apron and beckoned. "Come on."

That's right, they weren't going to sit here talking forever. Sena found that his arms were trembling violently, and he clutched his opposite elbows, as though they might shake right off if he didn't. It was finally going to happen now. Whatever Hiruma had wanted a disposable nobody slave for, it was time to find out. 

"Don't open any closed doors here," his master said as they walked, though it hardly needed saying.

"Yes, master."

"But especially not this one." They passed a door with a huge, heavy deadbolt that seemed out of place indoors. The deadbolt was secured with a padlock, but the key was hanging right from the lock. The hinges on the opposite side looked a little loose, as though the door had been slammed and shaken, heavily, repeatedly. 

Definitely not a door that Sena planned to open. "Yes, master."

Hiruma studied him briefly, then moved on. When they exited out into a yard, for a second Sena thought that he was still stuck in his memories. But there was no forest here, just grass and pavement, and exercise equipment, and what seemed to be a shed in the distance, the same fence from the front of the house enveloping it all. 

"See those red lines?"

Sena found two painted red lines on the pavement, a close one and a far one, and nodded.

"On my count, I want you to run from this one to that one, like your fucking life depends on it."

"Yes, master," said Sena, who had a really bad feeling about this. 

"So get to the line, shrimp." 

As Sena jumped to do so, Hiruma picked up a stopwatch hanging from a convenient nail on the outside wall, and pushed a button. "Ready? Go!"

Sena didn't know what else to do. He took off.

Physically, he was better off than he'd been in a long time. He had eaten, his injuries were tended, and he even had shoes on: stiff with newness, but cushioning his every stride. By the time he got to the opposite line, he actually felt a little refreshed from the short dash, from getting to stretch his legs, and breathe the fresh air, and revel in the relative painlessness of it all.

Then he turned, and saw his master's face.

The fresh air choked out of his lungs, and it suddenly became difficult to inhale more. 

"Come back," said Hiruma, and Sena had no choice but to obey, though he knew he was walking to his slaughter. "What the _fuck_ was that? You were faster half naked this morning. All that food slowing you down?"

"I'm sorry." Sena hugged his arms to his chest. "I'm really sorry."

"Your other owner, the one that liked to chase you," Hiruma's voice lowered dangerously. "What did he do to you if he caught you?"

"Master, please," Sena all but sobbed. He had known this was coming, but it somehow felt worse now, like he could have avoided it if he had just run fast enough. New and old nightmares collided, and the only constant was the terror thrumming in his veins.

Hiruma pointed to the first line again. "Imagine that he's chasing you. Now do it again."

This time Sena truly ran like his life depended on it, because he knew that it did. He got to the opposite line and wanted to keep going, but made himself stop, stumble back to the start. He was too terrified to look at his master's reaction, but Hiruma only said, "Better," and waved him back inside.

"Not there yet, by a long shot," he added, as he closed off the sun and fresh air behind them. "But, better."


	6. Two red lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to post a chapter per day, but sometimes they're a bit rushed. I went back and rewrote Hiruma and Sena's conversation in the previous chapter, since I wasn't happy with how it came out.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Sena woke feeling better rested than he had in a long time, which seemed wrong. He was nestled in some soft, warm cocoon, there was sun shining through the window, and nothing hurt particularly badly. 

Surely there was something he was supposed to be doing, rather than _sleeping_ , in a _bed_? 

The thought jerked him upright, loudly clanking the chain that linked him to the headboard of said bed. He became aware that there had been footsteps going by, when the the sound suddenly seemed to reverse and get louder. That was bad.

He had almost convinced himself that the terrifying face of his master was a trick of his memory, distorted by fear, but when Hiruma bust in through the door, he looked every bit as scary as Sena remembered. 

Worse today, because he looked _furious_. 

"Sorry, master, sorry," Sena said, flailing around as he tried to figure out if he should sit, stand, or get down and grovel.

"What are you sorry for?" Hiruma's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked around. When he got no response besides further trembling, he unlocked the chain from Sena's collar, and half pushed him out of bed. 

"I'm going out. Fatty's not back yet, but I won't worry about him." 

It suddenly occurred to Sena that the angry expression on Hiruma's face meant he was worried, but refrained from commenting.

"That means you're going to be on your own here. Now, there's three options. One, I leave you chained up like a fucking dog. Two, I show you what happens if you try to escape," Hiruma's hand on Sena's back nudged just a bit harder against the wounds that Kid had so carefully bandaged the day before, more a threat than actual pain, but the message was clear, "and I catch you, which I will. Or three, you give me your solemn fucking word that you will be very, very good for me, and we won't need the other routes. Well?"

Sena, who had his eyes squeezed shut, praying for anything but option two, suddenly realized that his master was waiting for him to respond. "I promise I'll be good, master," he said hastily, though he didn't honestly expect it to help. "I won't run. I'll obey. I promise. Please—"

"Good." Hiruma dropped the chain on Sena's pillow and stepped back. "There's oatmeal and a protein shake in the fridge, eat them before I get back. Sometime today, go do the 40-yard dash again, oh, a hundred times. Sleep when you're tired. Clear?"

Sena, who was still waiting for option two, or maybe one and two, nodded breathlessly. 

"No questions?" his master pressed.

Too many questions. Sena tried to focus on his assignment. "Um, the dash is... between the two red lines?" 

"Like your life depends on it," Hiruma confirmed, and was gone. 

For a long time after, Sena wandered around the room nervously. The instructions he'd been given didn't sound right, but they were the only ones he had. Careful not to disturb the chain on the pillow, he made the bed around it, on the reasoning that it couldn't be a bad thing to do, but could easily be a bad thing not to do. He'd been directed into it the night before, chained to it, and eventually in the anxious waiting he must have fallen asleep on it. Maybe his master had wanted him in the night, but he'd slept through it? But no, there would surely have been hell to pay if that was the case. 

Either way, he had instructions now. He hesitantly wandered out into the hall, where it was dim and quiet, and found himself tiptoeing, finding it hard to believe that he was alone. He passed by the locked door, and the kitchen, and stared at the closed refrigerator for a long while. It was shocking he could even feel hunger this soon after the abundance of last night, but he had no idea how long his master was going to be gone. Long enough that food would be required. Days? Longer? He'd better save it for when he really needed it.

Come to think of it, the amount of food left for him didn't seem proportional to the amount of tasks. Was he meant to find his own work to do?

Deciding he'd better get started on his known assignment, and figure out the rest later, he made his way to the yard. It looked untouched since yesterday: the stopwatch still hung from its nail, the red lines still stark across the pavement. The sun felt nice, and there were actually birds calling in the distance. As he made his way to the starting line, he had only one pressing thought: he really couldn't afford to mess this up.

He took a deep breath, and started to run. One lap, two. He reminded himself that his life depended on this. His master knew when he was slacking. 

Five, six. But it was really kind of exhilarating. To be outdoors. To move his body, without pain. To be unwatched. 

By ten, he was really out of breath. He didn't know if he was supposed to do them all at once, or if it was okay to take a break. Better not risk it. 

Thirteen... fourteen... He was getting really thirsty. His master hadn't given him permission to take water from the faucet. But if he was going to be alone long enough that it was necessary to eat, then water seemed like it would make sense. Or was that what the protein shake was for? Nineteen... twenty...

At twenty-one, he was cut off by a blood-curdling scream. 

He came to an abrupt halt, panting for breath even as he looked around wildly for danger. It had been unmistakably human, a man's voice, low and jagged and full of wordless agony. Sena had heard too many screams just like it not to recognize the pain and fear it carried. Someone was being tortured, and...

And it sounded like it had come from inside the house.


	7. Like a fucking turkey

Although Shin's morning routine had been the same for months, it still felt strange not to be on his way to practice before his brain had even woken. Once he got into the swing of things, showering, shaving, dressing, it was easier to remember what his new role was, but there was always that same confusion at the start of the day, when he found himself facing down a closet full of silks rather than jerseys, putting scent on his wrists rather than athletic tape, that he almost wondered where he was and whose bizarre life he'd walked into. 

Shin had never been a morning person. 

When he'd finished his preparations, he reported to his handler, and was led to a guest room to await his first so-called guest. The handler was new, to him at least, but he didn't speak back, only nodded in response to the instructions he was given. He thought he saw a flash of a condescending smirk as the handler left, but it was brief enough that he could pretend he had only imagined it. 

It wasn't long anyway, before Hiruma arrived. Closing the door behind him and shrugging off his jacket, then his shirt, Hiruma draped himself bonelessly across the bed and began typing something on his phone. "You don't look surprised," he said absently. "Expecting me?

"I'm not bound." Shin stood up, as if to demonstrate that he could, and went to the table, where he had already laid out the massage oils that he knew Hiruma favored. He thought he heard Hiruma stop tapping, but concentrated on his task, pouring out a generous helping from the first bottle, rubbing it between his palms to warm it up, as the sharp citrus scent of it filled the room. "Will mandarin be suitable today?"

"What, every other customer of yours wants you trussed up? Like a fucking turkey?" said Hiruma. 

"That's the appeal, I think." A big, strong athlete, helpless, at their disposal.

Shin turned to find Hiruma giving him a flat look, followed by a finger-twirling motion. From experience, he knew what that meant. Just a few months ago, he would have sighed, but lately it was becoming second nature to check these responses. Most "customers", as Hiruma put it, didn't appreciate it. 

Wiping his hands clean on a towel, he stripped down to his underwear, and patiently turned so Hiruma could see what damage had been done to him since their last encounter.

He tried to take stock in his own mind, but he couldn't remember anything too drastic. One or two new scars, perhaps, and some fresher wounds that he hadn't yet counted out, for whether they'd heal on their own. But Hiruma still looked annoyed. "You need to take care of that body, if you're going to be competition ready. You're no fucking use to me crippled."

Shin thought crippled was putting it harshly, but Hiruma had already returned to his phone. Shin put his clothes back on, repeated the steps with the oil, and got the massage started before Hiruma could make him wipe it off again. Leaning over the bed, he began with Hiruma's neck and shoulders, which were full of tension, as usual, and took a steady, methodical fight, as usual, to force into relaxation.

"This would probably be more effective if you had your arms at your sides," Shin commented. 

Hiruma didn't reply, unless purposely typing faster was a response. 

On to Hiruma's upper back, which always required the most digging in. Shin put his elbows into it, and was rewarded for his efforts: Hiruma didn't respond audibly to the massage in any way, no comments, no groans, but Shin could feel through his hands the knots gradually and reluctantly ebbing away. He could also feel that Hiruma had lost some of his muscle definition here, which meant he had lost some of the power in his throws. A shame. 

"You haven't been keeping up your training," Shin commented. "You need to take care of that body, to be competition ready."

"Do all your customers let you sass them like this?" came the response. 

As far as Hiruma went, the remark was all but biteless, but Shin still found his hands stuttering in their task. He was nearly sure Hiruma wouldn't retaliate, wouldn't file a complaint, but if he did, the consequences were unthinkable. 

But he wouldn't.

But if he did.

Shin forced himself to break free before the thoughts chased themselves into an endless loop. It was normal Hiruma snark, hardly the worst he'd gotten. Even so, he hoped the pause would go unnoticed. To cover it, Shin got up for more oil, and when he came back, he felt steady again. 

He worked in silence until he had finished the lower back, and found himself tracing the two layers of waistband with his thumb: jeans, and the boxers half peeking from beneath them. It would almost be easier if Hiruma would use him, like all the others. Sometimes he thought it would be less invasive than their conversations, than this illusion that he was the one in control here: fully clothed, standing, while Hiruma lay beneath him, back vulnerable and exposed. Most likely it was some patented Hiruma trick for getting him to open up. The only reason he hadn't tried to force the issue yet was that he wasn't sure even sex would stop Hiruma talking. 

As if on cue, Hiruma said, "I found a runner for you," a little too casually.

Shin's hands didn't falter this time. "Oh?"

"A deal's a fucking deal, isn't it? I find a light-speed runner that can beat you, you start training again."

Shin tried not to think what it would be like, to go back to the team, to spend his days on the field again, instead of inside these painted rooms.

"Or was it never about the runner," said Hiruma, soft and deadly. "It was about him all along, wasn't it?"

"No," Shin said, and found his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Show me the runner, then."

"How am I going to show you the runner here, in this whorehouse?" Hiruma pushed himself up onto his elbows, and Shin obediently stopped what he was doing. "You tell your owner you want to start playing again. Part-time, if you want. One match a month. He'll have to put you in practice again. I'll bring the runner, you'll see him with your own fucking eyes. A light-speed shrimp that can beat your time. Or are you just going to rot in here and let him run right past you?"

"I can't just..." Shin trailed off, the excuses he'd half-formulated sounding feeble even to him.

Hiruma got off the bed, picked up his shirt, and pulled it on. Apparently vulnerable time was over.

"Your time isn't up yet." By now, Shin had a preternatural sense of how long it would be to the end of the hour. He would have at least wiped off the oils, if he'd known Hiruma was about to get dressed.

"If it's not about Sakuraba, then you'll do it," said Hiruma firmly, taking out his wallet. 

"It's not about Sakuraba," said Shin, and felt a little convinced. "I'll do it."


	8. So modest

As soon as he saw the sender, Kid knew the text for what it was. How many times had he seen Hiruma blasting out messages to his network of slaves—purchased, blackmailed, or otherwise? Now, more literally than most, he was one of them, compelled to Hiruma's bidding at the buzz of a phone. 

"Let's take a break, Tetsuma," he called out, hoping he kept the bitterness from his voice. He coaxed his horse toward some nearby shade, and then slid off the saddle. Tetsuma, ever literal, simply stopped in place. The cows he'd been herding now milled around his suddenly still form, nosing at this new statue that had appeared in their midst. 

Taking off his hat to let the breeze ruffle the sweat from his brow, Kid opened the message.

_"Oujou going to regionals. Can you beat them?"_

"Are you... talking about football?" Kid muttered, too surprised to keep from speaking out loud. He sensed, rather than saw, Tetsuma turn to look at him, from within his herd. 

Seibu had always done well at the annual tournament, making it to nationals more years than not, but nothing good ever came of being overconfident. More importantly, training had been far from their top priority this year, what with the imminent financial ruin they faced, which they ultimately never escaped, only traded in for a devil. 

Still, he knew and trusted his team. After thinking his answer over carefully, he typed, _"Oujou is a much weaker team without Shin."_

That was the problem with the slave teams that made up the majority of the league. Rather than participate, wealthy slave-owners who knew little about football simply purchased and traded athletes to play for them. When teams were owned by someone who had no knowledge or care for the game, they were so often mismanaged. After Shogun's retirement, Oujou's new owner had pulled Shin and some others off the team simply because he saw dollar signs elsewhere, or so the rumors went. That was why a team like Seibu, which didn't have any really exceptional players, other than maybe Tetsuma, continued to do well, while Oujou had all but dropped off the charts.

"Hey Tetsuma!" Kid plucked a water bottle out of his saddle bag. "Slant!" 

No matter how much time went between practices, he trusted Tetsuma would always know the pass routes by heart. Kid fired the bottle, not so much throwing it as placing it at precisely the time and location that Tetsuma would catch it, and only then looked to make sure the other man was on his way. He had forgotten that Tetsuma was being mobbed by cows, but Tetsuma was already charging his way through the herd. Reliable as ever, he made the catch with a satisfying smack, and zero expression on his face. Kid could have sworn he looked happy. 

It was true that regionals were coming up, and they needed to get back into practice if they wanted to compete. He'd put out the call. They could start practices again, even do some recruiting. They could afford to, now that debt collectors were no longer roaming the property, touching and measuring things like they were already on the auction block. Now that...

Now that Hiruma had paid their debt.

Now that Kid was a slave. 

What was he thinking? Seibu wasn't a great football team owned by one of the players. Kid was a slave now, which meant that Seibu was a slave team too, no different from Oujou. 

A sudden chill found him, that had nothing to do with the breeze or the shade. He looked down at his phone with new suspicion, only to see that he had more messages.

_"Fucking eyebrows, always so modest."  
"Can you beat them with Shin?"_

If Hiruma owned the estate, and owned Kid, it meant that he owned the team too. Was he asking for a particular outcome here? Maybe if Seibu beat Oujou, and then purposefully lost to Hiruma's own Deimon... 

The very thought was like a stab to the heart. He'd built this team himself, him and Tetsuma: sweating with them, straining, bleeding with them. Slave and free alike, during the season, every single player threw their whole being into the sport. To train and struggle and fight their way up to the top, only to be forced up to give up just short of the goal: could he do that to his team?

As he turned this thought over in his mind, the phone buzzed again in his hand.

_"Long fucking silence."  
"If you can't, then practice."_

_"Will do,"_ Kid sent, and put the phone away. 


	9. Padlock

Every time. 

Every time the silence descended long enough, and Sena found himself wondering if he'd just imagined it, or if it might have been a dog, or something... Every single time his heart had just started to settle, the screaming would start again. 

It wasn't always the same scream. Once it had even sounded like an animal, wild and baying, lifting to an unnatural high pitch that raised the hair on his arms. But it was always the same voice, the same agony, and it had been at least four or five times by now. Every time he'd left the yard to try to find its source, it had always stopped before he had gotten there.

But there was really only one place that made sense. 

Still parched and winded from running, Sena crouched outside the bolted door, the one that his master had explicitly told him not to open, and put his face in his hands. 

The key in the padlock glinted as if to tempt him, but he had never been less tempted to do something in his life. 

Sure, he could easily open the door, and let out whoever was in there. 

And then what? They'd both be trapped in this house until Hiruma returned, and that would be the end of them. 

For all he knew, Hiruma hadn't really left at all, but was behind the door, actively torturing some captive back there. Something had to be drawing out those screams. 

Sena tried to clear the mental image. He had to get away from here. He knew that if he was at the door when the next scream came, well, he'd have to open it then, he'd have to do whatever he could to help, even if it was nothing more than holding the prisoner's hand, or offering a stolen sip of water. Even if it meant facing Hiruma's wrath.

That's why he needed leave the door, and go back outside, to his assigned task, where he could pretend not to know where the screaming was coming from, and give himself a chance to be the coward he knew he was, the kind of coward that stayed out of things like this—

Rather than a scream, there came a muffled sob this time, that sounded like a drawn-out, "Nooo..." Sena suddenly wondered if all those silences in between the previous screams had really been silences at all, or if they'd all been filled with unheard cries like this one. 

Without conscious thought, he found the key turning in his hand, the padlock slipping free. He put a trembling hand on the bolt, knowing that he was probably dooming himself to the same fate as whoever was locked behind it. But then, he probably would have ended up in there one way or another, he consoled himself, and slid the door open.

Rather than the torture chamber that he was expecting, he found a bedroom not too different from the one he'd spent the night in. The curtains were drawn shut, the walls were hung with picture frames, and there was a bed against the far wall with a huge man in it, stubble-chinned and muscular and drenched with perspiration. The man tossed his head wildly, sweeping a sweaty mop of hair back and forth over the pillow. When his crumpled, unseeing face turned and caught the light from the doorway, it shone with wetness. The man was sobbing brokenly, desperately, in his sleep. 

Filled with pity, Sena took one step into the room, and the man's eyes flared open as if he'd physically felt the intrusion. 

For a moment, they both froze, staring at each other. 

Then the man on the bed surged upright, snarling. It was definitely the same voice that had produced all those pain-filled screams, but awake, it roared instead with hatred and fury: "Leave me alone! LEAVE ME ALONE!" 

Sena's whole body went slack, the padlock and key dropping from his hands to the carpet. He wanted to run, but his exhausted legs wouldn't carry him, he could only stare in shock at the contorted face of the man now struggling to get up—

"Move!" was the only warning he got, as he was shoved aside by something that surged past him, smelling oddly of citrus. He found himself flat on his rear, looking up at Hiruma's back. Hiruma, who spared only a second to look down at him, with a venom in his gaze that could have killed, if if it had been held any longer. Hiruma, who seemed to be holding some kind of baton-like weapon loosely in one hand, letting it dangle behind his leg, shielding it from sight. Hiruma, who advanced into the room, and looked calm all of a sudden, posture open, voice casual, as if he were visiting an old friend. 

"All right, Musashi, you fucking old man, you had some shitty dreams. Now you better get some sense into that senile brain of yours, before I have to knock it back in for you."

The man jerked at the words, and it suddenly became obvious that he couldn't have gotten out of the bed, no matter his struggles: his arms and legs were chained to the four posts. Sena had never been in any danger. 

Now he was dead. Worse than dead. 

Without waiting to see what happened next, he ran. Back to the room he'd woken up in that morning, where he could tuck himself into a corner, press his face into the ground, and wish he never had. 


	10. Tea and honey

Sena prepared what he would say to his master, or at least he tried to, but the words wouldn't quite gather. Every time he thought about what he'd done, he was interrupted by another wave of nausea and terror. It was hopeless. Hopeless.

He didn't know how long he'd been curled up in the corner before the door opened, but it felt like an eternity. What scraps of apologies he'd managed to put together withered on his tongue, when he saw that it wasn't his master in the doorway, but the wild man, now unchained from the bed. 

So his master was going to unleash this Musashi on him. A fitting punishment for the crime. Sena tried to shrink away further from the rage that was coming, but he was already wedged as far into the corner as he could. 

"...that's why _you_ fucking do it," Hiruma was saying from the hallway, kicking the larger man into the room, literally. Sena didn't see how that could be possible, Hiruma's slender leg against Musashi's muscular mass, but Musashi seemed to allow himself to be pushed, still sipping from a mug as the door slammed shut behind him.

"Hey there." The man spoke quietly now, just above a whisper, but there was still a harsh, gravelly quality to his voice, like it was too hoarse to use properly. "Guess I scared you, huh? Sometimes I'm not... all there, these days. Nothing personal." He had a second cup in his other hand, and he set it down on the carpet between them, then backed off, like Sena was a scared animal. "Tea and honey, same as mine. It's, uh, soothing."

"Yes, sir," said Sena diffidently, but made no move for it. Out of fear, rage, and this weirdly calm voice, Sena vastly preferred this new Musashi, and didn't want to risk him reverting to the previous versions. "I'm really sorry, sir. For going in your room."

"No big deal. And I'm no 'sir'. You can call me Musashi—I can't stop anyone else, why not you too?" On closer look, Musashi appeared freshly showered, his damp hair half-heartedly slicked over to one side of his head. There was a faint red abrasion all around his wrist that caught the eye when he lifted the mug for another gulp. "What's your name?"

Sena shook his head mutely.

"Oi, Hiruma," Musashi turned and called through the door. Sena looked up in horror, but didn't know how to stop him. At this volume, his voice was even raspier, like he'd been chewing jagged blades. "What's the kid's name? You have no idea, do you?" Musashi's voice lowered back to a normal level. "He has no idea, does he?"

"Please don't call him in," said Sena hastily. He didn't know he felt about being called a kid, but that wasn't exactly his biggest problem right now. "I'll do whatever you want. You don't have to get him."

"Okay," Musashi blew out a breath, and looked around the room, like he was trying to think of something else to say. "So this is where you spent the night. You know this is Hiruma's room, right?"

Sena hadn't known that. There was not a scrap of personality anywhere: he had thought it might be a spare. Or maybe a shared room where anyone could make use of a slave. He tried not to think of the implications of taking Hiruma's bed for the night.

"I guess he didn't want to put you in Kurita's room. Sentimental guy. Hey, did you know, he had me build a bunch of secrets for him in here. Like check this out—" Musashi started tapping on the wall next to the light switch with his giant fingers.

"Wait, please don't," Sena shielded his eyes quickly. "I-I can't know that." It came back to him in a flash, Hiruma looking around the room suspiciously that morning, wondering if Sena had stumbled on something he shouldn't have. The less Sena knew, the better. He resolved to look at nothing but the floor the entire time he was in here, and even that only if necessary. "S-sorry."

"That's okay," Musashi sighed again. Drummed his fingers on his mug, restless, awkward. His eyes fell on the chain on the pillow. "Pretty sure that's one of mine. What's it doing here?" 

"Master used it to secure me last night," Sena explained, though it seemed obvious. Timidly, he added, "just like he secured you. Are... are you a slave, too?" 

"Huh?" Musashi's gaze snapped over, and then clouded with pain. Putting a hand to his temple, he took a couple unsteady steps back, mug sloshing, until he could brace himself against the wall and groan. "All... all right, looks like that's about my limit for now. Here, why don't you come put me to bed." When Sena looked horrified, Musashi clarified. "I mean, lock me in," which didn't help much.

But Musashi was already staggering out, and Sena couldn't afford any more disobedience. Scrambling up, he had to use the wall for support himself, until he got feeling back in his legs. By the time he made it to Musashi's room, the other man was already in bed, eyes closed. 

"Just put those cuffs on me. The ankle ones first. Nice and tight." Sena had to pick them up with two hands, the chain was so thick and heavy. The cuffs were padded, though, supple leather straps with rounded edges, that wrapped easily around each ankle without digging in. Sena had worn a lot of restraints in his life, and he couldn't remember ever seeing anything so obviously designed for comfort. 

The worn notch was easy to find; Sena tightened it to there, and repeated for the other ankle. As he finished up the wrists, he noticed that the sheets were a different color from earlier; they must have been changed.

A sudden movement made Sena flinch, but Musashi only lifted his arms to show how much slack he still had, and then sleepily pointed to the phone on his nightstand. "Don't tell me you're worried about me? I have a direct hotline to those two. You might be our new running back, but you wouldn't believe how fast he'll come running, Hiruma. Huge softy. Lock the door behind you, would you? Thanks..."

Before Sena could even think to ask what a running back was supposed to be, Musashi was already sound asleep again. 


	11. Bathtub 2

As Sena backed out of the room, he concentrated on staying quiet and not waking Musashi. That was the only reason he managed to bite down on his lip instead of crying out when he backed straight into his master. 

"If you're going to kneel," Hiruma snapped, grabbing Sena by the elbow to stop him, even before Sena himself realized he was going down, "go do it in the bathroom." 

"Yes, master." Feeling like his heart was about to pound out of his throat, he raced its rapid beat to the bathroom, where he looked around for a suitable location.

"Oh, so now you can run?" came Hiruma's voice from behind.

Sena settled on kneeling in the bathtub. His master might appreciate an easy way to clean up the mess from the punishment. Any blood should wash right down the drain. 

It was still slightly damp in here from Musashi's shower, the porcelain hard on his knees. Once he was in position, he found he could see himself in the mirror: eyes red, lips pressed white and bloodless. He could also see that the counter was already laid out with fresh bandages, which suggested his master was feeling _extremely_ merciful indeed. He was going to patch Sena back up after he tore him apart. He wasn't planning to break Sena beyond fixing. It was more than he expected or deserved. Sena made a mental note: he had to remember to show his gratitude, no matter how incapacitated he was by the end of this.

At that moment, the face of a demon appeared above his in the mirror, like a bad moon. "Take off your shirt," said the demon's reflection. 

Sena didn't argue or question, though the order chilled him to the bone. He folded the shirt with shaking hands and laid it down on the edge of the tub. Then thought better of it, and put it on the tile floor, where it had a chance of staying clean. 

When he straightened back up, he saw that Hiruma was coming at him with scissors, and it took all his strength not to try to shield himself with his arms. It wouldn't help anyway, he chanted to himself like a mantra, there was no protecting himself from his master's wrath: better not to fight, accept what was coming, rather than make it worse. 

"Got curious?" said Hiruma nastily, as he squatted down next to Sena, and cut the first bandage loose from his back. Sena trembled violently under his hands, at the brush of cold blade against his skin, but it didn't pierce him, not yet. "Just had to see what was behind the forbidden door?"

"I'm sorry." Sena knew excuses would only bring more anger down on him, but maybe an apology was okay. "I'm sorry, master. Please."

Hiruma unwound bandage after soiled bandage from Sena's shoulders and dumped them by the handful. "Please what?"

"Please punish me. I disobeyed. I deserve it. I'm sorry."

There was silence until the last bandage came free, and then Hiruma tapped him on the shoulder. "Turn around, look at your back. No, in the fucking mirror, shrimp. No one's neck bends that way." 

Awkwardly, Sena maneuvered until his back was facing the mirror, and he could look at it over his shoulder. It wasn't terrible: only the livid red marks from the whipping, on his last day at Rotti's, still looked fresh, though they were laid over a dark background of bruises that mottled him from side to side. 

"You already know I want you to run for me. That means I need you at peak physical condition. And that means I need all this," Hiruma waved in the mirror, "healed up. If I whip you now, that would just be shooting myself in the fucking foot. Got it?"

Sena did not get it. "M-my arms, master? You can still... I don't need those to run..."

"What kind of fucking idiot—" Sena braced himself to be slapped: that couldn't possibly interfere with peak physical condition. But apparently it did, because Hiruma just aggressively wadded up the used bandages, tighter and tighter, like he wanted to choke the life out of them.

"All right, I see the problem here. You think I just want you to run pretty fast. Like a fucking deer you hunt in the woods." Hiruma lifted the mass of bandages in one hand and flung it across the room. It twirled in the air, slowly unfurling, but landed neatly in the wastebasket before it could come apart. "Wrong. You're going to run faster than anybody else in the league. And you'll need every single fucking muscle for this run. Arms too."

Hiruma got up to wash his hands, and came back with a tube of something, which he applied with deft fingers to the welts on Sena's back, no cruelty to his touch, though he still muttered darkly to himself the whole time. Feeling like an oncoming train had suddenly pranced off its track to politely go around him, Sena found himself numb with shock. He knew better than to think that this meant he couldn't be beaten. It just meant that if he provoked his master into doing it, his usefulness would be at an end. At that, he shuddered so hard that Hiruma had to press down on his shoulder to keep him steady. 

"Thank you, master," Sena whispered. He had been planning to say it no matter what, through whatever haze of pain he was left in, even if he was only barely clinging to consciousness. It sounded fragile now, weak against the magnitude of the reprieve he'd been granted. "So what... what will my punishment be?"

"Oh, your punishment," a glint came into Hiruma's eyes at the word. The scissors were suddenly back in his hand, and Sena froze as he felt the cold edge of it press against the length of his throat. He didn't dare move, swallow, or breathe. In the lengthening stillness, he could feel his very pulse drum against the unyielding metal blade. 

"Since you were so eager to barge into the fucking old man's room... you get to take care of him from now on." The scissors snipped, and Sena was stunned to feel the collar from Rotti's fall away from his neck. "Laundry, to start with. So much fucking laundry waiting for you." 

As Hiruma began to apply fresh bandages, Sena dared to pick up the cut collar from his lap. Cut apart, it was obvious for what it was, just cheap plastic, like the ring sealing a water bottle, but on his throat it had felt so permanent, like a very part of him.

After weighing the risks over, Sena had just about resolved to ask what would happen if he wasn't capable of this run that Hiruma was talking about—though he was pretty sure he knew the answer—when a buzzing sound began to echo in the room. Hiruma bit off the last length of bandage with his teeth, tucked it in, and fished the phone from his pocket. 

"You found him?" he said as soon as he answered. And then, "The fatty was _what_?"

While he talked, Hiruma seemed to think of something and made an impatient gesture with his free hand, which Sena struggled to interpret. Scoot back? Before he could panic too much, Hiruma put the hand flat on Sena's chest and pushed until Sena's side settled against the wall of the tub. Some more gestures and tugging conveyed to Sena to get off his knees and roll up the legs of his pants. 

"Fine, I was going to come by the camp anyway, I'll see for myself." Hiruma hung up and together they gazed down at Sena's now bare knees and shins, which bore the normal mess of scrapes and bruises from crawling around. To Sena, they looked better off than usual, since he hadn't been on his bare knees much recently. 

Judging by the displeased silence, Hiruma seemed to disagree.

"You do this one," he said finally, tossing Sena the tube and some more bandages. "And no more fucking kneeling."


	12. Kidnapper 1

Hiruma had explained that "camp" was where "the others" were "training", but no more than that.

They had then driven for what seemed like ages to Sena, who had never left the town limits before, never seen the houses and buildings shrinking behind him, as the distant mountain equally loomed larger and larger in the windshield. It was no longer distant by the time they came to a stop at what seemed to be a run-down inn a ways off the main road. The windows were dingy and some cracked, and all the letters on the yellowed sign out front had fallen out around its base, like snow. They were the only car in the whole parking lot, besides a monster of an RV parked horizontally across several spaces that looked like it hadn't moved in years. 

Shutting the engine, Hiruma turned to glare expectantly at Sena, or rather the empty wrapper he was holding. 

Sena, who couldn't remember the last time he'd felt full two days in a row, scrambled to grab a second energy bar from the box in his lap, before he could get yelled at again. 

In the rush of getting ready to leave, his master hadn't been pleased to discover the uneaten oatmeal and protein shake in the fridge. Sena hadn't known how to explain himself, but somehow he hadn't been hit, or even told that if he wasn't going to eat as ordered, he wouldn't get food at all. 

Instead he had spent the whole ride chomping on bananas and energy bars in penance. At his feet were the empty shake bottle, and a bag that was now mostly banana peels. His jaw was actually starting to ache from chewing. He hadn't even known that could happen.

As Sena hastily unwrapped the new bar, Hiruma broke off a piece from it, and popped it in his own mouth. "Stay here," he said, chewing, as he climbed out of the car and stretched his lanky frame. Instead of entering the inn, Hiruma walked around it, and onto some sort of trailhead that seemed to lead up into the mountains. 

Once Hiruma had disappeared from view, Sena stopped to give his jaw a rest. There was something thrilling about being so far outside the town where he'd spent his entire life. He'd never been this close to the mountain before, though it had always been visible in the distance, when he'd been allowed outdoors. Up close, it was both imposing and majestic, like you might zoom out and find out that what had been the whole world to you, a car, a house, a town, was really just a measly speck perched on a much vaster planet. Near the trail that Hiruma had taken, there was even a sign about mountain lions, which Sena studied carefully, wondering if wild animals ever came into parking lots like this one.

As if summoned by the thought, there was a sudden rustle as an animal dashed out of a nearby bush. 

No, not an animal—the short figure was wearing some sort of sports uniform. He scurried over to the car, opened the driver's side door, and climbed in, all while looking over his shoulder. 

"All right, caught my ride out of here—huh?" Finally turning and seeing Sena for the first time, he fell back with a squawk, as if Sena had been the one sneaking around, rather than just sitting frozen on the adjacent seat the whole time. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Sena, who thought the questions were more appropriate for the guy who had burst out of the bushes and hijacked a car, felt a budding fear. He couldn't afford to get into trouble again so soon. There was only so much patience in the universe for someone like him, and he felt sure he was already in the negative.

"You came here with that Hiruma," said the intruder, eyes narrowing. "Did he kidnap you too? Fine, we'll get out of here together. Er... do you know where the keys are?"

"Kidnap?" If this guy—was he even old enough to drive?—drove off with Sena in the car, then that would be the true kidnapping, or at least theft of property. "We can't do that! Aren't you a slave too?" It was the only conclusion that Sena could come up with. The realization struck him with a new horror. If he was in the car when this other slave used it to make his getaway, Sena would look complicit. He had promised he wouldn't run. He scrabbled furiously at his door, resolving to throw himself out of the car if he had to, even if it was moving.

"Ha! No man can own the great Raimon Tarou, number one receiver in the world!" Then the great Raimon Tarou seemed to deflate a bit. "I mean, that evil Hiruma seems to think he can. He says my parents sold me, but they would never do that, never! Hiruma kidnapped me, and brought me here, and has me catch stupid footballs all day long. Footballs! I'm a baseball player!" 

"Umm... Raimon..." said Sena nervously. 

"Now come on, where did he put the keys? We can be out of here before he even notices that we're gone—" 

"Raimon!!" Sena all but shrieked. There was a different mountain in the windshield now, an enormous rotund man wearing the same uniform as Raimon, except his eclipsed the entire sky.

Raimon looked up, eyes widening. "Oh no, that's—"

The giant came over to Sena's side of the car ("why me," he whimpered), and it was a surprise that the earth didn't shake under each enormous step. He opened the door with a huge hand and Sena only had enough time to gasp out, "I wasn't trying to—" before being pulled out bodily and crushed into a massive hug. 

"You must be the new running back!" the giant was saying, while proceeding to squeeze the life out of him. "I'm so happy to meet you!"

After his life had finished flashing before his eyes, Sena found that he could still breathe, just barely. The giant had released him slightly to peer down into the car. "Oh, Monta? How did you get here already? Hiruma only just told us he was here..."

"Yes, what _are_ you doing here?" Hiruma's razor-sharp grin appeared in the driver's side window, as he leaned forward, one arm against the roof. "You must be eager to repeat the training from hell, is that it?"

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no." Raimon's hands patted the area around him frantically, as though hoping to magically land on the car keys.

Hiruma lifted up a hand and dangled the key chain teasingly from a hooked finger, letting it tap against the glass. "Get out, you fucking monkey. If I have to drag you, I'll make you regret it." 

"Please do it, Raimon," Sena begged, still trapped in the giant's grasp. Between being squeezed to death by this monstrous body, or being grinned at like that by his master, he found himself much more terrified for Raimon's situation.

Hiruma looked up at Sena, and then took a step back to open the car door, sweeping his arm out in a mocking invitation. "Put him down, you fucking fatty," he added to the giant, "before you crush him." 

As the giant gently set Sena on his feet, Raimon unerringly snatched the last banana from among all the empty peels with a, "Fine!" He leaped out of the car, striking a pose with the banana, or maybe using it to point accusingly at Hiruma. "You got me this time! But I'll escape someday!" Defiantly, he peeled the banana and took a big bite, chewing right in Hiruma's face as he stomped past.

Shocked at this behavior, Sena automatically began to kneel down, as if showing enough submissiveness might buy both of them some lenience. 

"Walk," Hiruma snapped, "both of you," and slammed the car door.


	13. Tryouts 1

Kurita hated leaving Hiruma alone at the house with Musashi. He knew that it was hard for Hiruma, no matter what he said, because Hiruma was the kind of person who took the responsibility for everything on himself, even if he couldn't have possibly have done anything about Musashi's dad, or the hospital bills, or, or how it all turned out. Besides, it wasn't safe to leave Musashi locked up alone for too long, even if he did sleep most of the day, these days, so it was good for them to both be around, so they could take turns being there for him.

That's why Kurita had planned on being on time that morning, he really did. The whole team was doing great here, from Komusubi, who was taking to the training well, even if he still hadn't found his voice yet, to Juumonji and his brothers (or weren't they really brothers? Kurita couldn't keep it straight), who all seemed to have something to prove. Even Monta, who got riled up in Hiruma's presence sometimes, really did seem to like football now, if it wasn't just Kurita's wishful thinking. Everyone else in the camp was doing lineman training, so he would have thought Monta would feel left out, but Monta actually seemed to enjoy showing off his unique abilities, especially when it came to Hiruma's super fast passes that no one else could follow, much less catch. 

Training in the high altitudes was really strengthening them up, and he could already see a huge improvement since the last time he was here! It hadn't been so long ago that Deimon hadn't existed as a team, and Musashi seemed lost to them forever, but now they were all together and had a great team and a real fighting shot at the Christmas Bowl. Kurita had packed his bags that morning with a spring in his step and was definitely planning to get to the bus stop on time.

Except as he began to walk, he had felt someone watching him. He had felt it a couple times that weekend, and brushed it off as just being tired from the training, and he'd never seen anyone, because the watcher had been really clever, setting up a camouflage of branches and leaves to conceal himself. But that morning, as he made his way to the bus stop—

"All right, enough already," Hiruma cut him off, and Kurita realized he'd been rambling. They were standing in the lobby of the abandoned inn that served as their base camp when they needed a rest at low altitude, or when it was raining. They'd left Monta and the new runner around back, so that Hiruma could meet their other new teammate, and hopefully get along.

"Obviously you found him by the beacon shining off his bald dome, brought him back here, and put him in a jersey to pretend he has even a chance of playing football. No point saying the rest."

In said jersey, which did swamp him rather badly, Yukimitsu flinched, but held his head up high—with clear effort—as Hiruma began to inspect him with a predatory air. Kurita wanted to interrupt: he knew Hiruma didn't mean anything bad by circling around like a vulture, but he was clearly scaring the poor man.

"Nice to meet you," said Yukimitsu, to the space above Hiruma's head, "I'm Yukimitsu Manabu. I will put my all into this team!" 

"Yes, Yukimitsu is really smart!" Kurita jumped in enthusiastically. "I showed him the rule book this morning, and he already has it all memorized! The pass routes too! I know you've been waiting so long for a receiver, and I thought, well, just in case... other ones... don't work out..." Kurita tried very hard not to think of Monta, in case Monta could sense it somehow, and feel bad. "Yukimitsu already knows them all!"

"Knowing is different from doing," Hiruma sighed, and stopped circling, which was somehow worse, like he'd seen enough and already discounted him. "Been a slave for ten minutes and already decided it wasn't for you, huh, baldy?" 

"Is it that obvious?" Yukimitsu was visibly struggling not to deflate like a pricked balloon. 

"Slaves don't have family names. Or chins." Hiruma put a finger on the chin that Yukimitsu was still holding high, and pushed it down into his chest, deflating him the rest of the way. 

"It, it's just still such a shock, honestly. I was an accountant at... well, I really shouldn't say. But I knew what they were doing was wrong, I knew it and said nothing for so many years, and I thought I should take a stand for once in my life. I just didn't expect it could get me into this kind of trouble." 

Kurita thought that was sad and brave, but Hiruma ignored him. "We can't keep him, fatty. He's clearly a runaway. This kind of slave, with," he waved a hand dismissively, "accountant skills, we don't have the budget for that. And if we did, we wouldn't spend it on a fucking calculator." 

"They didn't chip me," said Yukimitsu quickly, "I got away before they could, they left the... Anyway, I got away. They have no way to track me."

"So why the hell are you here?" Hiruma marched over to what once must have been the check-in desk, and now held basket after basket of footballs. "Go somewhere else, start a new accountant shop or whatever. You've been behind a fucking desk your whole life, and now you suddenly expect to be an athlete?" 

Hiruma picked up a football and made as if to throw it, but the ball never left his hand. When Yukimitsu stopped flinching long enough to notice he was reaching out for empty air, he seemed to get angry. "I can't go back to that life! I won't keep pushing numbers around for corrupt billionaires! I finally stood up for what I believe in, and I won't let it be for nothing. When I saw your team practicing in the mountains, day after day, working so hard to improve themselves, I knew. I knew that's what I wanted—"

Mindless of the impassioned speech, Hiruma finally threw the ball. As Yukimitsu reached for it, he barely grazed the surface with his fingertips, sending it flying in another direction. Several times on its way down, he tried to lunge for it, and missed. When it finally landed, he just stopped. 

"I'll practice," he said resolutely, staring down at the ball as it bounced around to a stop. "I know I'm starting behind everyone else, so I'll practice more than everyone else, to make up for it. I'll get up before everyone, and stay up after everyone has gone to bed. I'll get better."

Seeing that Yukimitsu wasn't going to do it, Hiruma walked over and picked the ball up himself. Then he gave Yukimitsu a shove, right on the chest. "Fine, you want a role on the team?"

"Hiruma," Kurita protested.

"Thank your lucky stars! We've been looking for a new punching bag." Hiruma shoved him again, hard enough to make him stumble backwards, then again. Through it all, Yukimitsu let himself get pushed, keeping his eyes down. "You can let us tackle you, and charge you, and slam you into the ground. Over, and over." One final shove, pushing him up against the wall, sending a shower of dust and old paint down on them—and this time, Hiruma didn't let go. Keeping his hand on Yukimitsu's thin chest, Hiruma leaned in close with his full, intent scrutiny. "And maybe fuck you too. That what you were running away from? Because we have no shortage of cocks here to keep you busy."

"Hiruma!" Kurita trusted his friend implicitly, but this was too much!

But Yukimitsu didn't look over, or ask him to intervene, only quietly coughed up dust. He seemed to have a very specific idea of how to deal with being pushed around. When he finally looked up at Hiruma, his eyes were watering, but hadn't lost a speck of determination. "And if I keep training through all that? If I get stronger while I'm serving whatever function the team needs? Will you consider letting me play then?" 

There was a long, dusty silence. Then Hiruma broke off with a surprised chuckle. He brushed some dust off Yukimitsu's shoulder, and then his face. Then he turned away and dissolved into into a full-blown cackle. "What a set of receivers we're going to have. One dumb-ass monkey that can catch but won't train, and one baldy genius that wants to train but can't catch for shit."

Kurita let out a happy cry, even as Hiruma continued, "I'm not playing you in a game until I know you're good for it. And if you stop training even for a second, I'll fucking turn you in." It didn't seem to scare Yukimitsu though, because he only sagged slightly against the wall, a small, relieved smile on his face. 

As Hiruma walked by, he gave Kurita one of his pleased kicks. "Now where's that fucking drunk? I have to show him mine. Not that he looks any better than yours, but I swear he can run sometimes, when you can fucking motivate him."


	14. Tryouts 2

After they'd been waiting for a while, the slave licked his lips and said, tentatively, "When master comes back, maybe you should... kneel."

"Like hell I should!" Raimon felt sorry for him, he really did, but seriously, _kneel_? 

It hadn't escaped his notice that the slave had bandages showing under the neck of his shirt, that when he lifted his legs, it was white bandages, not socks, peeking out over his shoes. When he leaned over far enough for his shirt to ride up, there were even bandages disappearing all the way up his back. It wouldn't have been any surprise if turned out the guy was made entirely of bandages under his clothes, like a mummy.

Abused as he was, it was no wonder he was so cowed. Raimon could be the bigger man and look past the brainwashed comments. Even if he didn't like them.

They had been left alone around back of the inn, in what Raimon privately thought of as the "downstairs" training grounds. He couldn't count how many endless, grueling hours of exercise he'd endured here, but it wasn't half as bad as when Doburoku made them go up the mountain and train in the low atmosphere. Raimon only went along with it all because it was keeping him in shape for baseball. Besides, Doburoku and Kurita and the others weren't so bad, it was just Hiruma that he couldn't forgive, for kidnapping him and all.

Now that the two of them were alone, it should have been a good chance for another escape attempt, except Hiruma had deliberately and showily put the car keys in his pocket before he left, and Raimon had been dragged back way too many times to go through that pointless exercise again. So they waited.

"Or at least apologize." The slave had been sitting in silence so long Raimon had all but forgotten his existence. "He can be really generous..."

"Seriously?? How can you say that?" Raimon demanded, earlier patience forgotten. "Apologize? To that _kidnapper_? Are you a man or not?"

"I'm a slave," the guy insisted, without a scrap of shame. "Just like you—"

"Leave it." The demon Hiruma was back, twirling a football in one hand. Doburoku was with him, clutching his customary booze wrapped in a paper bag, along with Kurita and the new guy, Yukimitsu, who looked overall okay, if slightly shaken, and slightly dusty for whatever reason. 

"This is him," Hiruma said, nodding at the slave, "he's called Sena." The slave looked surprised at that, as if he'd thought his "owner" might not even know his name. Probably never used it before.

"This fucking drunk is our trainer," Hiruma added. "He used to be good at football, but that's ancient history." Doburoku popped the top from his bottle and whipped it at Hiruma, who merely tilted his head slightly to dodge. "Ready to show him what you've got, shrimp?"

Next to Raimon, Sena began to shake. Like, really shake, hard enough that Raimon asked, "Hey, you okay?", previous grudge forgotten. But Sena didn't respond. 

Taking long pulls from his bottle as he walked, Doburoku examined Sena from all sides, but stopped short of actually touching him, or checking his teeth like a horse. "He's not much to look at, but I guess I'll have to see him in action. Preferably at his top speed. Should we get some dog treats?" he added dryly. 

Raimon remembered some "training sessions" with Hiruma's hell-hound. He was pretty sure it would ignore the treats and bite Sena right in two. Heroically, he planted himself in front of Sena, ready to defend him, but Hiruma just waved a hand. "Nah, he already knows what's at stake. Don't you?"

Sena nodded stiffly, sharply, like he was having trouble moving his body properly.

"You sure you're okay?" Raimon reached out despite himself, and Sena actually flinched away from his hand.

"I... I just know what happens if I can't do it."

"Can't do what?"

But at the slightest beckon from Hiruma, Sena was turning away like Raimon didn't even exist. They set him up at the 40 yard dash line, and Doburoku put down his bottle for once, in favor of a whistle. When he blew it, Sena took off like a shot. One moment Raimon had his hands outstretched in spotting position, ready to catch the guy when he inevitably fell over. The next, Sena's legs were pumping like pistons, and he was halfway to the horizon before Raimon's mouth even managed to drop open. He'd inhaled to say something encouraging, but in the span of that one held breath, Sena had made it all the way, and was now bent double over the finish line, hands braced on thighs, panting heavily for breath. 

"Now I know what you saw in him." Doburoku stared at his stopwatch, and even tapped it a couple times, like the seconds might have gotten stuck in there somehow. "And this is him starved? And in that condition? The technique needs work, obviously, but..."

"That was amazing, Sena!" Kurita cried happy, rushing over to offer a bottle of water. The slave started to reach for it, but then stopped himself and looked at Hiruma first. Seriously? He had just run so fast he nearly broke physics, he was clearly about to keel over, and he needed permission to have a drink of water? 

As Raimon felt his blood start to boil, he noticed that Hiruma was watching him, for whatever reason, and not the slave who had raced his heart out for him. A beat, and then Hiruma got that stupid sneaky grin on his face again. He walked up to Sena, yanked up the back of his shirt without warning, and said, loudly, "Look at that, shrimp, you bled through the bandages. That whipping just isn't going heal—"

"You whipped him?" Raimon burst out. "And then you made him run like that? What kind of monster are you?" 

He stomped over, prepared to give a piece of his mind, only to have Kurita bodily put himself between them, looking sad and worried. "Monta, please..." 

"My name isn't Monta!" Raimon tried to get around him, but no matter which direction he tried to cut, there only seemed to be more Kurita.

"Oh?" Hiruma contrived to look innocent. "But everyone knows Deimon has no receiver. The moment they see his first run, the entire enemy team is going to be targeting him. You haven't even seen how brutal the training is going to get for this shrimp."

"Do you even have a heart? Look how hard he's trying! _You whipped him!_ "

"R-Raimon, please," said Sena, whose legs hadn't yet stopped trembling.

"He was even trying to tell me you're not so bad! But you're even worse than I thought! You won't even let him heal properly!"

"How I wish I could! But if we're going to the Christmas bowl on these legs, we're going to need to work him until he dies, and then revive him for more." Hiruma put a possessive arm around Sena's shoulders, and smiled widely. "Such a shame! It's all I can do, without being able to use passes. If only we had a proper receiver who practiced!" 

Yukimitsu, who had opened his mouth to protest, seemed to realize something, and subsided, a quiet frown on his face.

Sena looked closer and closer to passing out each second, but he didn't say a word of protest either. Somehow, the resignation on his face was worse than any tears or pleas could have been.

"If only—!" Hiruma repeated dramatically.

"Fine!" Raimon screeched, "I'll practice! I'm already going to be the number one catching expert in the world anyway! It'll be nothing to catch some dumb footballs! So you leave this guy alone!"

Still half-draped over Sena's shoulder, Hiruma used his free hand to give the football a light toss. As did, he lifted his eyebrow and said, very precisely, "Hook."

Raimon gritted his teeth, but it only took one more glance at Sena standing there shivering to get him to move. It galled him to follow Hiruma's orders, but it was easy after all the training he'd been forced into. Honestly, he was in better shape than he'd ever been in his life, and he knew the pass routes so well they might as well been burned into the ground at his feet. He hooked just in time to see that tight spiraling bullet of a pass leave Hiruma's hand, and threw himself forward.

"I told you!" he crowed, as he clutched it to his chest, thrilled despite the situation to have made such a tricky catch, "I'm the best receiver in the world!"

But Hiruma wasn't even looking at him anymore, instead holding out the water bottle for Sena, who sipped cautiously from the straw. Raimon couldn't help but feel like it was some kind of message. Cooperate, and he gets water. Don't, and...

With a satisfied smirk, Hiruma reached up behind Sena, and and tugged his shirt back down. "Line and sinker," he added, and laughed.


	15. The lion

The drive back to town felt twice as long, partially because Sena was having some trouble settling into his own skin. He was nearly sure he had passed the test, because he hadn't received any sort of punishment, but it was hard to know for sure, especially after all that business with Monta. All he knew was that he had never run that hard in his entire life, not from punishments (because you weren't supposed to), not from his past owners (even when he was told to), not even from the market on what he'd known with complete certainty to be the last day of his life. His entire body still felt weak and rubbery, and he found himself pooling across the seat like batter. 

Kurita took up most of the back seat next to him, chatting pleasantly about how fun it was to play football, games that they'd had already, and his hopes for some kind of tournament that was coming up. Through the haze, Sena did his best to pay attention. He was going to need to learn everything about football very quickly, he suspected, and right now he didn't even know the rules. 

"Why am I even here?" said Monta abruptly. He was hunched sullenly in the passenger's seat, arms crossed, alternately glaring at Hiruma and out the window. 

"Is the monkey missing the mountain already?" Hiruma laughed. "You've had enough conditioning. What you need now is to ingrain my passes into your fucking bones."

"I'm going to run away as soon as we get there!"

"Don't you like playing with us?" Kurita said sadly, and Monta gave a guilty start, like he'd forgotten Kurita and Sena were back there.

By the time they came to a stop, Sena was feeling a little more solid, and managed to leverage himself up to look out the window. They'd pulled up to a construction site, the bones of a building poking up like ribs from behind green mesh fences, which bore signs for Takekura Construction.

As Kurita climbed out of the car, one of the workers stopped hammering and came over, opening a section of the fence to let him in. Two sections. "Well, if it isn't Kurita!" he said, sticking his thumbs in his belt loops, as he waited for Kurita to pull off his football uniform, revealing work clothes underneath. "Thought you were taking the morning off. Didn't you miss the bus?" 

"Hiruma gave me a ride," said Kurita sheepishly. "Sorry I'm late."

The worker slapped Kurita on the back as he walked by, but it was unclear if Kurita even felt it. "Well you missed a gentleman caller too. Monk-looking guy, had a bunch of dreadlocks? Came by looking for you, I said you weren't going to be in until later."

"D-dreadlocks?" Kurita shared a concerned look with Hiruma through the windshield, or tried to. 

Hiruma just waved him off, and started to back out. "You find your own ride home, fatty."

As they rolled away, Monta said, with a snide tone that made Sena gasp, "So Kurita trains all weekend and works all week. And what do _you_ do for a job?"

"Scheme," said Hiruma. 

Sena tried to think how he could signal to Monta to be more respectful, without getting him into even more trouble, but couldn't come up with anything. He'd just been starting to think he had a chance of staying on Hiruma's good side, and avoiding punishment. He had the feeling it was going to be a lot harder with Monta around.

As they neared the house, Sena saw a gate further down the street swinging loosely in the wind. As they approached, it became apparent that it was the gate to Hiruma's house that was hanging wide open. 

Hiruma didn't so much as slow at the sight, but he did say, quietly, "stay down," as he pulled in. 

The intruder was obvious to spot. The promised "monk-looking guy" was a tall, menacing figure in robes, with a head of dreadlocks and a scowl on his face. He was prowling around the house like a caged lion, knocking on the exterior with his knuckles at intervals as he went, like an angry home inspector, or like he was testing how difficult it would be to punch his fist through any given spot. 

As if he hadn't noticed, Hiruma calmly pulled into his normal parking position on the driveway without slowing or swerving, even when the intruder crossed right into their path. "If I open the front door," he said, without turning to Sena, or even moving his lips much, "you go grab the key from the padlock, fucking shrimp."

There could only be one key he was referring to. "Yes, master," Sena said, and braced himself to run again.

"If I don't, stay in here," Hiruma added, as he got out. As soon as he was in the open, the intruder turned on him with a predatory menace, but if Hiruma felt it, it only seemed to widen his grin.

"Here to try out for the Deimon Devilbats, you fucking dreads?" Hiruma held his phone out in front of him and snapped a picture. "If you beg nicely, we might let you wash our uniforms."

"Stop yapping, you trash, I'm here to collect. And put that thing away." 

Hiruma took another couple shots, and then leaned back comfortably against the car, so he could start typing. "Collect what?"

In a flash, the intruder had descended the stairs and was right there—pinning Hiruma bodily against the car, face leaning in close, eyes promising murder. "That mongrel trash you stole from me." From inside, Sena could feel the force of the impact as the man seized Hiruma's texting wrist and slammed it against the car roof. As the entire car rocked backwards, he and Monta both hung on to the same seat back, and exchanged a shocked look over it. What was going to happen to them if Hiruma was killed right in front of them?

"Stole?" Hiruma still had that delighted, toothy grin on his face. "Fucking dreads, I won him, fair and square. Or should I say, the old man won himself. Or are those nasty dreadlocks crushing your brain so bad they're messing with your memory?" 

For a moment, the intruder didn't speak, just looked down at the mouthy captive he had pinned. Then he snatched the phone out of Hiruma's hand. 

Hiruma didn't even try to stop it. Maybe he knew he couldn't.

"You the kind of trash that can't even stop texting when your betters are talking to you?"

"Tweeting," said Hiruma.

"Aah?"

"Just tweeting how I spotted the dreamy Kongo Agon in this part of town. What kind of hashtags are your fangirls using these days? Take a look, fucking dreads, did I miss any?" 

Kongo squinted down at the phone with a disgusted expression, and then simply crushed the entire thing in his grip. "What's that supposed to do?" As he let the crumbled bits fall, though, he did back up a step, tilting his head as if he were listening for something. 

"You don't know how technology works?" Hiruma cackled. "You can't unsend the message by breaking the phone! I should shave those shitty dreads off you to help you think straight!"

Finally, Kongo released his hold. Though Hiruma looked calm, he pulled his arm back to himself with an alacrity that Sena knew well. Relieved. Defensive. Almost... afraid. 

"I know I didn't leave that trash in any condition to play," said Kongo. "Try to fight if you want. Then bring him back to me when you realize it's the only thing he's good for."

Then he turned on his heel with a swish of his dreadlocks, and left. 

Hiruma stayed stuck in place against the car, clutching his wrist, long enough that Sena wanted to go to him, despite his orders. Monta, who didn't seem to care about orders at the best of times, cracked his door open, and through it, they could suddenly hear a chorus of women's voices, rising in the distance. 

"Go hand these out," said Hiruma, grin back on his face as he swiftly went to the trunk. "One per girl, and don't come back until you're out." Sena got out of the car too, and instantly had a huge stack of papers thrust against his chest. Without a second glance, Hiruma strode into the house, while Sena and Monta were left reading the flyer on top: "Demon Devilbats, now accepting cheerleader applications."


	16. The rabbit

When Sena at last found his sweaty hands empty of flyers, he made a beeline for the house. It didn't feel right to be out on the streets unattended, uncollared, and it was a relief to pass through the fence and make it back onto his master's property. 

He half expected Hiruma to pop up behind him demanding where he'd been, but when he turned to shut the fence, he found only Monta following, which was an even bigger relief.

Honestly, he had expected Monta to vanish the moment Hiruma left, but maybe Monta had enjoyed chatting with the surprisingly large crowd of surprisingly beautiful women that had gathered. Once Monta had passed out a few flyers and got a question here and there asking if he was one of Deimon's players, he'd enthusiastically begun to show off his catches. Whether or not the women were actually impressed, at least he was able to hold their attention long enough to hand out the flyers, which was better than Sena could say for himself. 

"What? I got something on my face?" said Monta, as they worked together to push the gates shut. When it closed with a click, he did a quick swipe of his forehead with the back of his wrist. He did have a goofy grin and a bit of a blush, but that wasn't going to brush off.

"I just... Thanks for... coming back. A certain promise from the car ride drifted through Sena's head. Monta probably hadn't come back for his sake, but it didn't change how furious Hiruma would have been if Monta had disappeared, and there would have only been one available target for his anger. "I'm... really grateful."

Monta only scoffed, the relaxed cheer draining out of him in an instant. "That bastard Hiruma knew I wouldn't have anywhere to go, and wanted to rub it in my face. That's why he left me unguarded out there. If I was braver, I would have called his bluff and run. Ah, Sena, I'm so uncool..."

"I-I don't think so! I mean, I didn't run either."

The look that Monta gave him in response was, in a word, unflattering. "Come on," he said, "might as well go see what crazy practice he has cooking up for us now."

The front door turned out to be locked, and Sena was against the idea of just ringing the doorbell.

"Don't you know the code?" Monta gestured to the keypads, as incredulous that Sena wouldn't know, as Sena was incredulous at the idea that he would be told such valuable information. 

"Let's check the practice yard," Sena suggested. "There's another door back there, maybe master left it open for us."

"Ugh," Monta rolled his eyes, "You can be so gross sometimes."

They were in luck. In the practice yard, they found Musashi actually up, or at least sitting on the grass, drinking from another mug of something. "Hey, Monta," he said when he saw them. "Hey... you."

"Oh, it's been a while!" said Monta.

"It's Sena, sir," said Sena shyly. Since his master had introduced him by the name, he thought it meant he was allowed to use it.

"It's Musashi, Sena," the other man returned, and pointed to the far edge of the yard, where a football was propped up against the fence. "Can you get that back for me? Kicked it a little too far." 

When Sena got closer, he saw that it was actually a scant inch away from the fence: not leaning against it, but impaled firmly into the dirt, point first.

"You kicked this?" Monta demanded. He plucked it from the dirt like a strange potato, and stared all the long way back to where Musashi sat.

"Just trying to stay in practice," said Musashi. "You kids okay? Hiruma got all worked up about something out there. He's on his computer, probably best to leave him be for now."

Sena shivered. He appreciated the warning—crossing his master in a bad mood was the last thing he wanted—but it also felt wrong not to report in for his next instructions.

As if reading his mind, Musashi took another slow sip, then stood up to pull something out of his pants pocket. "He left some training for you both though. Actually no," he squinted at the slip of paper, "Looks like it's old Doburoku's handwriting. Anyway, let me know if you want me to talk you through this stuff, I've seen it all before. Or not, doesn't matter to me."

"Well, if it's Doburoku, I guess it's okay," said Monta. "He knows what he's talking about."

"Are... are you sure... um..." said Sena. 

"That I'm not gonna go crazy on you?" Musashi put the mug down. "Probably fine. You ever done a bench press before?"

***

They were deep into it when the back door slid open, revealing Kurita's tired form. "I'm home! I put some chili on the stove, it should be... ready... in..." 

Kurita trailed off as he took in the sight before him. Monta was flat on the bench, straining against the barbell. Sena, who'd been banned from bench presses when Musashi saw the state of his back, was doing ladder drills. And Musashi himself still seemed well, if occasionally unresponsive, leaning against the storage shed and giving intermittent suggestions, when his eyes were open. 

The exhaustion from a hard day's work slowly cleared from Kurita's face, like clouds parting to allow pure joy and excitement to shine through. 

"Everyone is working so hard!! I'll come join you!!" With an impossible lightness to his movement that hadn't been there before, Kurita rushed over to spot Monta, and yell encouragingly. Monta finally managed the weight he'd been attempting, and Kurita cheered so loudly that Monta even managed to do it a second time.

By the time the chili timer went off, Sena was ready to collapse, and the others looked no better off. Soon enough, Musashi was dozing at the kitchen table, while Monta took his turn in the shower. Kurita happily stirred the bubbling pot and recited what seemed to be the entire recipe, with occasional interspersed directions for Sena to fetch this and that for the table. 

It was only when the three of them were seated, the enormous, steaming pot of chili taking centerpiece on the table between them, that Sena realized the fourth table setting was meant for him. Hiruma was out somewhere, and even Monta, another slave, was seated and happily inhaling the aroma, so it was clear he was intended to sit with them. But it just... didn't feel right.

As they all turned to look at him expectantly, Sena backed up a step, then another. He didn't want to see Kurita's face fall. But he couldn't. 

"I... I..." The drills and exercises from the afternoon had seemed within the plausible realm of what his master might want from him. But in the face of the fragrant, home-cooked chili, Sena suddenly questioned if he'd done the right thing there either. The thought of his master coming home to find he'd taken such liberties without his knowledge—playing around in the yard all day, eating food unearned—was enough to make his stomach churn. "I'm not hungry." 

"No way!" Monta said. "After that workout, you're not hungry?"

"Oh no, I should have asked if you liked chili," said Kurita anxiously, half getting out of his seat. "What do you like to eat, Sena?"

Sena wobbled back another step, and found he was starting to shake. They all waited for him to say something.

The silence was broken by a clatter, as Musashi began to ladle himself a bowl. "How about you eat with Hiruma when he gets back? We'll save you both some."

Sena nodded quickly, gratefully. "Y-yes, that..." He didn't want to imply that he was entitled to food at all. But once Hiruma was back, he could decide what he wanted for Sena. It was perfect. It just... didn't tell him what to do now. 

"Shower's free," Musashi continued, in that same too-bland tone, as he stirred in cheese and sour cream. "Or there's a good football rulebook on one of the shelves in the other room, if you want to read that."

Sena clutched the suggestions like a lifeline. Get cleaned up for his master. Study the sport that his master wanted him to play. Be good. Be pleasing.

He resumed backing out, but it was too hard to avoid their gazes: Monta's furious, Kurita's worried, Musashi's the worst of all.

As he turned, he found he had just enough strength for one more run.

***

That night, Sena and Monta shared Hiruma's bed, which was about as much as he'd expected, but without Hiruma, which... wasn't. For hours, he lay perched tensely on top of the covers, entirely awake despite the exhausting day that had already put Monta straight to sleep next to him—thankfully without comment.

When at last he heard an engine outside, and then the front door open and close, he knew it was time. The footsteps coming down the hallway weren't Musashi's or Kurita's, and the two of them were both tucked into their own rooms by now, besides. 

The door opened silently, letting a slice of light cut in from the hallway. Rather than joining them in bed, Hiruma saw that Sena was awake, and beckoned from the doorway, his long shadow making the gesture with him.

Even without being able to see him clearly, Sena could tell that his master was disappointed in him.

"Peak physical condition," Hiruma said, with none of his usual energy, as Sena tiptoed into the hallway. 

"Yes, master. I'm sorry, master." 

Head down, he followed Hiruma to the kitchen, where two big bowls of the chili, already reheated, waited for them at the table. Sitting down with his master reminded him of his first night here, which Sena realized, with surprise, had been just a day ago. 

It was possible that not eating at dinnertime had thrown off whatever schedule Hiruma had planned for him. Earlier, it had seemed like a remote possibility, compared to the unthinkable crime of eating without permission. But now he was equally sure he'd been wrong then. Anxiety squeezed at his gut, and he couldn't force himself to reach for the spoon, though all the signs were saying that Hiruma had brought him here to eat. It was as if his arms had locked rigidly into place, and he could only stare down fixedly at his bowl. 

Across from him, Hiruma shoveled chili into his mouth like it was a chore, and didn't say anything. Under the kitchen light, he looked bleached and tired. Even after only knowing him for a day, Sena found the sight uncharacteristic, unnerving. 

When he'd finished and let the spoon clack back into the bowl, Hiruma made no comment about Sena's untouched portion, instead reaching for a book sitting on his side of the table. Sena was surprised to see that it was the football manual he'd been reading earlier, his bookmark still sticking out of it, about halfway through.

"S-sorry I didn't finish reading it, master," said Sena. "I can still..."

Hiruma opened up to one of the early pages, and said, "How many points for a touchdown?"

When Sena had stopped quailing at the sudden test, he realized that he actually knew the answer. "Six... master?"

"And after?"

"Um... you can either get one point for a kick... or two points for advancing it over the line."

"Eat your chili," said Hiruma softly. 

Test passed, Sena found that his arms had unlocked, and when he took the first spoonful, reveling in the rich, complex flavors, realized that he was starving. 

Hiruma paged through the manual rapidly like a flipbook until he reached the bookmark, as if to scan what Sena had read, and began to quiz him again, all easy questions, with generous pauses in between. At first Sena stopped eating to answer each question, and waited for some sort of approval to start again: a grunt, a nod. But as he ate, he only seemed to get hungrier, and soon was just blurting out answers between bites. 

When Sena had finished eating, Hiruma got up, moving stiffly. "Do the dishes, shrimp. And then go to bed."

Quickly gathering up their bowls, Sena said again, "I'm sorry." 

"Eat with the others tomorrow," Hiruma said, and managed to find the one unbruised spot on Sena's shoulder to give a short, careful squeeze. 


	17. Routine 1

It was strange how quickly things became routine. 

Sena helped around the house, did drills in the yard, and eventually was okayed for weightlifting—for the small amounts of weight he could manage—all with Monta at his side. For how much Monta grumbled, he was surprisingly cheerful about practice, even the one-on-one sessions he had with Hiruma. Sometimes Sena wondered what kind of training was involved in those sessions, exactly, but he didn't think it could be that bad, since Monta always came back full of adrenaline and stories about this or that amazing catch he'd made.

After the first day, Sena made sure to eat whenever anyone else was eating, and it got easier each time. He found out from Kurita the speed he had run in front of Doburoku, and every day he sprinted until he had met the mark at least once, just to assure himself that he was still capable of what his master wanted, especially on the days he felt particularly undeserving of all that he was allowed. It wasn't always easy, and sometimes after a few failures, he had to visualize his life before—and what his life would surely return to, if he didn't succeed. That was usually enough motivation to push him through, even if it left him weak-legged and dizzy afterwards, and only partially with relief.

When they weren't training, Sena and Monta spent a lot of time in Musashi's room, even when the man was asleep. That way they could fetch him whatever he needed, or wake him if he had nightmares—though always from a distance. When Kurita got home from work, sometimes they'd all gather around a laptop and watch recorded football games and discuss cool plays. It was almost peaceful, especially when Hiruma wasn't around, which he often wasn't, lately.

On one of the rare afternoons that he was, Sena and Monta came in from the yard to find him sitting in the kitchen, squinting at his laptop. "Good news, shrimps," he said without looking up, "Got us a game this weekend."

"A game?" Monta panted, as he filled his water glass from the faucet. "Against who?" Sena, who had come in for water too, froze in the doorway.

"Who else? Only the best defense in the league: the Oujou White Knights." Hiruma shut his computer lid and beamed. When he didn't get the enthusiastic response he seemed to be looking for, he added, "They're back at full strength now, nothing like the shriveled up nothing they were last year." 

Sena didn't know what to say, and Monta was too busy gulping down his water to respond. Hiruma finally noticed that the two of them were ragged from training, and frowned. "All right, you two have zero fucking endurance. We need to add distance running to your training," he waved ominously toward the front door, "out there."

"Out on the streets, master?" said Sena, as Monta finally stopped drinking to make a face at him. "By ourselves?"

"What, you not planning on coming back?"

"N-no! Of course not!" Sena found himself gripping the door frame, hard. Surely his master didn't think—

"I can find you wherever you go," said Hiruma, grabbing a pen and paper and starting to sketch some streets and intersections, "so don't even think about it."

Monta squawked at that. "Why are you looking at _me_? Sena's the one who asked—"

"Every slave that gets sold has a tracking chip." Hiruma tilted his head and tapped the back of his neck with the pen. "Embedded when you first go on the market. I can find you on my phone more easily than an open urinal."

Sena knew that, of course, minus the urinal part. He thought Monta might say something indignant again about not being a slave, but he had gone strangely quiet, one of his hands curled involuntarily around the nape of his own neck, as if clutching a remembered pain.

"You, fucking shrimp." Hiruma slashed a couple more lines across the page. "Let the monkey set the pace. I don't want you showing off your legs out there. That's our secret weapon." 

"Yes, master." Sena braced himself for Monta's normal mockery, but it didn't come.

"And drink some water before you go." Hiruma folded the map into a tiny football and flicked it to Monta. "You look drier than my grandma's left elbow."

They set off down the route Hiruma had drawn, side by side on the sidewalk. Even though it wasn't Sena's top speed, he was still winded almost immediately. They'd been getting a lot of training in, but there was only so far you could run in a yard. 

"Let's test our bench press again," said Monta, maybe to distract him. "I bet we've gotten a lot stronger."

"It's only been a week!" Sena said, but he wanted to see too. More importantly, he wanted to show his master that he was improving, and not to give up on him.

In the distance, they saw someone coming their way, a jogger in a gray, hooded sweatshirt. To distract himself from the burning in his lungs, Sena studied the other man closely, the unfamiliar logo on his chest, the smooth, precise motions of his gait, the breath puffing from his mouth. As they passed, Sena looked up into the hood and found the man's eyes were full of intensity, focused on the distance. Abashed, Sena forced himself to focus on his run as well.

After they had passed a healthy distance, Monta finally turned to him and hissed, "Did you see his hoodie?"

"Uhh, I guess?"

"That was the Oujou logo! He's on the Oujou football team!"

It was overwhelming, how much Sena didn't know. He had to study more. "Oujou? The team that master wants us to play?"

"I wonder if he was their receiver," said Monta. "He was kind of tall."

Sena had been wondering what it would be like to play against real opponents, instead of just practice runs against Kurita and Monta, and sometimes Hiruma. In his mind, the enemy team had always been vague blurs: the edge of an elbow, a blob blocking his way. Filling in the blurs with the solid intensity of that Oujou player, the only one he had as an example, was a lot more worrying. 

As they jogged in place at the next intersection, waiting for a car to pass, he said, "Hey Monta," because Monta always seemed to have a positive outlook on things, "What do you think would happen if... we were to... lose—"

"Watch it!"

Monta catching Sena by the sleeve, and jerking him forcefully backwards, was all that saved him from running directly into the path of an oncoming motorcycle.

The rider did some crazy drift that brought him squarely across their path, forcing them to stop, right in the middle of the street. Mindless of any traffic, the rider swung his long leg over to dismount, pulled off his helmet with long arms, and unfurled a long, lolling tongue from his mouth that flicked at Sena like a lizard after a fly. 

"Where do you kids think you're going in such a hurry? What were you gonna do if my bike got scratched," the biker put a hand on Sena's shoulder from a mile away, "thanks to your carelessness?" 

"Sorry, man," said Monta, trying to get in between them. "Looks like the bike's fine, so we'll just be—"

Several more bikers pulled up in quick succession, and dismounted, all but boxing them in.  
  
"I said," said the lizard man, grip tightening on Sena's shoulder, in a way that gave him flashbacks. "How are you going to repay us? For the damages?"

"What damages?" demanded Monta, while Sena stood stock still. "Like I said, your bike is fine!"

This couldn't be happening, Sena thought, not in the middle of the street, in broad daylight. The traffic light changed, but the cars waiting to turn suddenly found somewhere else to be. A pedestrian who had been looking to cross abruptly turned and marched purposefully the other way.

Over the backs of some of the bikers, Sena saw the shape of another jogger approaching, and fixated on it, already falling into the familiar sensation of dissociating from a situation that he had no way out of. As the shape got closer, the Oujou logo on his sweatshirt became visible, a charging knight holding a lance. It almost looked like... 

It shouldn't have been possible for him to have looped all the way around already, unless he'd been jogging insanely fast the entire way, but as he got closer, and closer, Sena became more and more sure: it was the same intense jogger from earlier, and he wasn't slowing down. Without warning, he shoved his way through the bikers in front of him, and his arm shot out to slam the lizard guy in the side. 

"Shit, it's Shin!" one of the gang yelled, a little late, his leader already crumpled on the ground.

"Come on!" said Sena, snapping back to himself in an instant of adrenaline, and grabbed Monta's arm. Together they ran past the jogger who'd saved them, toward the hole in the line of bikers that he had carved. Sena felt bad about abandoning him, but they would be no help in a fight, and he had to protect his master's property, first and foremost. 

The bikers were starting to close in, trying to trap them, and Sena knew he couldn't let that happen. Without thinking, he sped up, charging the shrinking opening until he just managed to swerve through. As he turned to check on Monta, he remembered his master's words like a punch to the gut: _"I don't want you showing off your legs out there. That's our secret weapon."_

Maybe no one had seen? 

But his hopes were dashed when Shin called out from behind, still with an armful of gangster, "Are you Hiruma's runner?"


	18. Routine 2

It was strange how quickly things became routine again. 

Coach gladly moved Shin back to the dorms, and only a few days passed between his last meeting with Hiruma and his walking out onto the same old field, helmet in hand. When he scanned the teammates that he'd be training with, he was surprised to find largely the same roster as before. It had felt like an entire lifetime since he'd last been here, yet so little had changed.

For several days, no one spoke to him, though he caught glimpses of them laughing and bantering without him—in the moments when they didn't notice him approaching, or after they thought he had gone. He couldn't be sure they were laughing at him, but it seemed probable that he was the topic of at least a few of these instances, especially the ones where they quickly quieted down at the sight of him. He had always been solitary in training, but in the past it had been because he outran and outlasted the others. Now it felt like they were staring at his back for different reasons.

Surprisingly, it was Takami who first broke the silence. About a week in, after a particularly grueling practice, during which Shin had twice sacked Takami and once blocked his pass, the quarterback approached to clasp arms with him. "I don't care what they say. It's good to have you back, Shin. Painful, but good."

Shin didn't know what to make of that. Takami, the one who should have been the most furious with him, was speaking as if there were no animosity between them, or at least, as if he wanted there not to be. 

"I'm behind on my training," said Shin cautiously.

"Then you've come to the right place." Takami seemed to spot the uncertainty on his face, and smirked at him, not unkindly. "No one can control what that crazy coach does, or where he puts them. Not Sakuraba, not you."

Well, that was simply false. "I asked him to take me off the team," Shin corrected him. "I said I'd refuse to play, if he put me on the field. He didn't have a choice."

"You asked for it? To be assigned to... that brothel?" 

Sensing that he'd spoken too much, Shin fell silent, and Takami raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "Shin, why would you do that? When Sakuraba... when he..." 

Shin had some idea of how hard it must have been for Takami to keep going, when he'd lost the tall receiver that had finally made him shine. Shin suspected that, even now, the quarterback was on the verge of losing his position on the team—an old injury, and new grief, straining his performance. Shin hadn't been thinking of those things, when he'd made his decision. He'd only thought of Sakuraba, and his own part in it all.

"Do you think Sakuraba would have wanted that? When he had no choice, for you to throw yours away too?"

Shin looked up, surprised. "But he did have a choice—"

Just like that, Takami slapped him. On this familiar field, Shin might have expected a punch, or a tackle, but not a slap. For a moment, he was jarred back to his other life: restrained, helpless, some patron, angry or laughing or aroused, taking it out on him. Then he remembered where he was, and knew he had actually earned that slap, which made it even worse.

"Don't you dare say that," Takami hissed, which was unlike him. "Sakuraba didn't leave us because he _chose_ to."

Numbly, Shin put a hand on his cheek, which was already starting to swell and radiate heat. Now he knew why Takami had been the first to approach him. Takami hadn't forgiven him: Takami didn't even know what he had done. 

Once, he might have corrected Takami's misapprehension, but he had learned over the past several months to keep his mouth shut, and it was long past time to apply those lessons to the present conversation. "I apologize," he said, instead, and turned away. "I'll go for my run now."

He selected the proper attire on autopilot: something that would allow freedom of movement, but keep him warm in the fall chill. Takami didn't know, which meant that, in all likelihood, most of them didn't know. They had no idea why Sakuraba was gone.

Shin made his way out onto the streets with no awareness of how he'd gotten there. All he saw in his mind's eye was Sakuraba in that hospital bed, asking him and only him: _"If I had been in that game, would I have made a difference?"_ Shin had never sugar-coated a truth in his entire life. And so, when Sakuraba had left the hospital, it wasn't to come back to the team, but to be a... a... 

As he noticed a pair of kids coming the other way, Shin shook himself out of his thoughts, and forced himself to focus on his form, his breathing, to make every stride count. Sakuraba was successful as a—say it, Shin—a prostitute, in a way that he'd never been as an athlete. He was immensely popular, seeing clientele of a higher caliber than any who would have deigned to visit Shin. It was unlikely that Sakuraba was tied and beaten on a regular basis, as Shin had been. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't convince himself that it was what Sakuraba would have wanted, even if it was what he'd chosen. But what he did know was that he would probably never see his friend again in his lifetime, not with their vastly different roles. Such was the fate of a slave.

As he rounded the next corner, it was only to see those same kids again, this time being hassled by the Zokugaku gang on their bikes. The sight cleared his head, like a shock of fresh air. He would never see Sakuraba again, no. But these children were well within his power to help.

Several of the gangsters had their backs to him, but Shin didn't consider for a moment attacking from behind. Instead he charged straight through and aimed for their leader, Habashira, who looked his way first with a smirk, then with an expression of horror. Shin poured his all into his trident tackle, and Habashira crumpled around it. Shin was rusty, but no one could withstand a charge from the side. 

The kids were smart enough to take the opening and run, one boy grabbing the other, but the gang members were starting to close ranks. They'd never make it. Shin dropped Habashira, preparing to go help, but then the first boy _accelerated_ impossibly, cut to the side, and slipped through the scant opening. The gangster who'd been trying to block him turned to give chase, leaving an opening for the second boy to pass as well. 

Almost absently, Shin deflected another blow from Habashira, this one with a knife. He replayed the motions in his mind, and again. The legs, the stance, the motions. 

That was undoubtedly a 4.2-second 40-yard dash. 

When Hiruma had mentioned it, Shin had assumed it was some kind of bluff, a lie fashioned into a ladder to drop into his pit of despair. He'd taken it, because there had been nothing else, but he hadn't fully believed it. Could it possibly have been truth?

"Are you Hiruma's runner?" he called after them, and the boys stopped. Turned. 

The runner was short and slight, with a boyish face, but he was no child. For a moment it looked like he might speak. Then he kept going, dragging the other one with him.

"Hiruma's?" Habashira groaned, just as his phone began to buzz. "Oh, shit." 

Shin turned to face him, but Habashira waved him away. "We're not going after them. Jesus, leave us alone, we got enough to deal with."

The rest of the gang began to disperse. Now that the kids—no, the other athletes—were out of harm's way, Shin saw no reason to stick around. Taking Habashira's word at face value, he weaved between a couple motorcycles and resumed his run. He knew he wouldn't be able to catch up to that light-speed runner, not at this distance. He was better off finishing up and heading back, before his tracker activity registered as suspicious.

Even so, he found himself adopting a slightly quicker pace than before, the memory of that run still blazed into his mind's eye.


	19. Talon grip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, 19 chapters is a lot to keep track of! I went back and added chapter titles, but I've never been good at naming things. As always, thanks for reading! 

They must have run back home, but Sena had no experience of time nor distance passing. He had the vague impression of Monta trying to talk to him, ask him questions, but he didn't know if he managed to form an answer. He was pretty sure he managed to run, though. It was what he had been sent out to do, _(and to not do)_ , and no matter his other failures, he could finish that much, for what good it did him.

As they opened the gate, it was to reveal a front yard much more crowded than the one they'd left. The massive RV from camp had somehow lumbered its way down from the mountain to barely squeeze within the property limits, and Kurita was cheerily carrying out camping chairs to set up around it. The entire yard was bustling in a way it had never been before, as all the Deimon members, from camp and otherwise, seemed to be rushing around within it. There was a lively, almost carnival-like atmosphere, and Monta beside him immediately cheered up at the sight.

It was also the worst possible timing, since Sena knew he had to confess his crimes, and he had been hoping to do it alone. 

He had spent the entire interval furiously not thinking about what Hiruma's reaction was going to be, the same way you might refuse to look over the edge of a cliff, but still be perfectly aware what would happen when you fell. The only thing Hiruma truly seemed to care about was football, and Sena knew it wouldn't end well for him, legs or no, if he had ruined their chances for the upcoming game. If there was any way to accept his punishment without witnesses, he would have begged for the opportunity, but with the entire team here, he couldn't even hope for that much. 

Monta ran over to help Kurita arrange the chairs around the RV, which, as Sena crept by, suddenly folded open, an entire panel of it hinging down to form a table surface. From the new opening, a head and torso popped out, bearing guacamole. As he leaned down to place it on the table, he saw Sena and Monta, and said, "Huh?" 

Then a second emerged next to him, holding tortillas. "Huh??"

And a third, a pitcher of sangria. "Huh??!"

"It's the brothers!" said Monta. "You made it!"

"Who are you calling brothers, you monkey?"

As Monta and the brothers (?) devolved into an argument, Sena inched past them, scanning the yard. No sign of Hiruma, but it would be worse to be caught delaying. Around back to the training yard he went, and when he peeked in through the door, he found Hiruma still in the kitchen, still clacking away at his laptop, looking like he'd never left.

As Sena tried to steel himself to approach, Hiruma shot him a look that made his insides turn. 

He knew. 

"I'm s-so sorry, master," said Sena miserably. "He was on the enemy team, I-I should never have run in front of him—"

Hiruma pushed away from the table, and motioned him over.

"I know I failed you," Sena continued, even as he helplessly obeyed, "I'll do whatever you want, I'll run faster, or I'll never run again, you tell me, I'll take whatever punishment you decide, I won't fight—"

Hiruma held out his finger in a shushing motion, and then, not waiting for Sena's mouth to catch up to his brain, simply pressed the surprisingly warm digit against Sena's lips until he was forced to stop talking. 

Sitting, Hiruma was nearly level with Sena standing up. Actually, Hiruma had to look up at him slightly, which didn't seem right. "Where did he touch you?" he said.

"Sh-Shin?" said Sena, bewildered, trying not to enunciate too much around the finger pinning his lips. 

"The fucking lizard," which was actually a perfectly clear description. "He said he grabbed you, and the lights disappeared out of your fucking skull. Show me."

Grateful for a clear directive, and no need to decipher the reasoning behind it, Sena scrambled to peel off the sleeve of his jacket, and then, in his haste to obey, popped the right side of his shirt over his head, revealing three long fingers of already-purpling bruise on his shoulder: a thumb pointing at his collarbone and two fingers raking down the back, like a talon grip. 

At least it's not in front of everyone else, he thought, as the sudden chill on his skin reminded him of another time that he deserved punishment. Then, he'd been swaddled in bandages, but now he was down to only a few patches: mostly on his back, and a few scraps of leg and knee. Now that he thought about it, the upcoming practice match seemed almost perfectly timed for when his body would be completely healed, or should have been. As his skin prickled over with goosebumps, he worried if the new bruises were what his master was concerned about. He had no doubt Hiruma could easily replace him if he wasn't up to condition.

Then Hiruma grabbed him possessively—upper arm, opposite shoulder—and pulled him in for closer inspection, face inches from the bruising. Oh. _Oh._ Of course. 

Nobody wanted their things to be marked by someone else. Sena hoped Hiruma's solution would be to cover the bruises with his own marks, not to throw him away. His master's hands were brandingly hot on his bare skin, callused and strong. They could squeeze him, mark him, hurt him. Forgive him.

Then they were gone, and Hiruma was sitting back with an expression that wasn't so much a grin, as a setting of the points of his teeth against each other. "You want me to get him over here and apologize to you?" He casually flicked his laptop shut, eyes never leaving Sena's. "The fucking lizard. I'll put him on his hands and knees, have him lick the ground at your feet. Just say the word."

"W-what?" said Sena helplessly. He was pretty sure that wasn't the word Hiruma had in mind.

"No? Pity. It would have destroyed him. Offer's on the table, let me know."

Order of business done, Hiruma picked up Sena's hand and pressed a stack of cards into it. "Wrote some new plays for Saturday. Memorize them if it kills you." 

Sena accepted the cards, but he couldn't just accept that he'd somehow managed to escape his punishment again. 

"Put your shirt back on," Hiruma added. "We need some team practice, before the game."

Sena did so. He should have felt safer, being permitted to tug the covering back over himself, hiding the markings that offended his master, but conversely his hands had started shaking so much that he almost couldn't do it. Hiruma made no move to help.

"I-I ran at my top speed, master," Sena whispered. Maybe Hiruma didn't know the full story after all? "In front of Shin."

"Why do you think I wrote new plays?" When Hiruma stood, he suddenly towered over Sena again. "Yeah, I wanted to shock him during the game, but it doesn't matter. We'll still kill them." 


	20. The fallen kingdom

The day of the Oujou-Deimon practice match came crisp and cool. Kid found a poncho for Tetsuma and draped it over him, feeling a bit like he was decorating a Christmas tree as he reached up, all the way up, to do so. 

"If Oujou were playing any other team, we'd go watch," he pointed out, not that Tetsuma was arguing with him at all, any more than a Christmas tree would. "They say Shin is back, and we were straight-out told to beat Oujou, so it only makes sense to scout." Kid considered the way he had the poncho arranged, one edge over the other, then changed his mind and reversed them. "Ah, I don't see how this will end well."

Instead of responding, Tetsuma merely rested his hand on the front of the poncho, pinning it exactly in place as Kid had folded it. 

"Yeah," Kid sighed, "I suppose it's good enough."

By the time they rounded up the rest of the team and made it to the stadium, the match was minutes from starting, but the seats were barely half full. Considering Oujou was on the decline, though, and Deimon hadn't made much of a name for itself with its ragtag team, it was hardly a bad turnout, especially for a last-minute practice match with no real stakes. If Oujou's new coach was good at anything, it was monetizing his assets. 

Kid had been somewhat reluctant to shell out said money to reserve a section of seats for the Seibu players, not so much because it wasn't his money, but because he'd surely be held accountable for it in front of Hiruma. But Hiruma had been the one to start it up with the football in the first place. He'd list it as "training" on the financial report, and see if Hiruma noticed or cared. Maybe "research".

As they approached their section, he noticed that one of the seats at the front was already taken, by a slight young man in a parka, slouched way down into the seat, legs propped up on the railing in front of him. 

Kid checked his tickets, then the seat again. Yep, seat number 117, the ticket with his own name on it, not anyone else on the team. No such thing as a coincidence, especially when the interloper was sporting a cowboy hat very much like his own.

"Excuse me," Kid tried to keep the touch of irony out of his voice. "Seems you're in my seat."

"I couldn't let you keep ignoring my calls." The young man looked up, and then gave his hat a gratuitous tip. "Am I wearing this right?"

Calls? Kid wondered. Then the hat came off, and he realized, "You're Kaitani Riku."

"I'm your new running back," Riku corrected, with an impish smile. "If you'll have me."

Kid blew out a long breath, already feeling a deep foreboding about this whole affair. "Why don't you all sit," he told the rest of the team, "Riku and I will... go talk this over." He turned to find somewhere more private, but although Riku put his feet down and sat up, he didn't stand.

"Seibu is the best team in the area," he said, with an expression so suddenly earnest it made Kid wonder if the hat was really meant to mock him after all. "And you're the best quarterback there is, everyone knows it."

"Whoa, let's not get carried away here..."

"They told me my skills could take me anywhere, so I did my research. I want to play on your team," Riku insisted. "Did you watch my demo video yet?"

Instead of answering, Kid turned toward the railing and leaned heavily against it. It felt like ice even through his coat, and the sensation grounded him. Below, he could see the Deimon players running around in their uniforms, either warming up, or running in terror from their captain, or both. By his count, they didn't even have a full roster down there, much less alternates for their bench, and had pulled in a couple subs from the general pool. On impulse, he asked, "How would you feel about playing for Deimon?" 

If Hiruma hadn't had the idea yet to raid Seibu for more players, Kid didn't see what there was to stop him. Yes, he'd watched Riku's demo. A talent like that, there was no reason Hiruma wouldn't snatch him right up, before they could even have a uniform made. As far as he knew, Deimon was short a runner, and Riku would more than fit the bill.

"Deimon?" Riku leaned forward to look over the railing with him, and seemed to lock in on the same figure. "Under Hiruma? No way, Mamori would kill me! Look, I decided on your team. Now can I sign on with you, or do I have to serenade you at your window?"

"Match is starting," replied Kid, busying himself with turning on his video camera, double-checking the battery. "Let's talk after. Nothing good ever comes of rushing into things."

The two quarterbacks were gathering for the coin toss, and Kid focused the lens on their faces. It wasn't part of the game, but it also wasn't as though he were limited by film, not in this digital age. Even from here, it was obvious Hiruma was in top form, taunting Takami about something or the other, with a fiendish grin visible for miles. Takami, to his credit, took it in stride. 

Kid had been on the receiving end of Hiruma's mind games before, but he watched with special interest today. It always paid to understand his opponents, but when it came to the man who now owned him, quite literally, in the eyes of the law, it was no longer a matter of football, but survival. The sooner he got that through his head, the safer he, his team, and all his people would be.

The game started with a bang. True to the rumors, Shin was back in jersey #40, and Oujou's defense looked all the more solid for it. From the start, he seemed to be heavily marking a #21 on the Deimon team. Twice, #21 ran. Twice, Shin flew towards him, bearing down on the smaller player as if drawn by a magnet. And twice, before he could be speared or tackled, #21 stopped and revealed empty hands. 

Hiruma had picked up a receiver somewhere, #80, and both of those plays ended up passes to him. The first time, the receiver managed to shake Oujou's cornerback, Iguchi in jersey #25, and get to the right place at the right time. The second time, Iguchi blocked him. On the third play, Hiruma was sacked before #80 could get into position. And when he got up for the next play, Hiruma unbelievably passed yet again to the same receiver, even though he was neck and neck with Iguchi. On the camera screen, Kid watched as #25 got a finger on the ball, only to have #80 grab it from him bodily. As they reassembled, Iguchi looked visibly shaken, while Deimon's #80 seemed to be drinking up the cheers from the crowd like a thirsty plant. 

"Hiruma's going to have trouble if he always makes the same play," Kid said idly, mostly just to see Tetsuma's reaction. There wasn't much of one, just the slightest degree of a forward lean, that showed Kid what he already knew: Tetsuma wanted to see that catch again. Smiling to himself, Kid rested the camera in his lap while the teams huddled up, so he could make doubly sure he had steady hands to record the next one. 

As if in answer to Tetsuma's unspoken wish, Hiruma yelled from within the huddle, "You're up again, fucking monkey!" loud enough that even Kid could hear it, so the Oujou team certainly did. "That fucking kappa is good as dead." 

If it were Kid, he would have ignored Hiruma's words and put more defense on #80 this time, but the Oujou coach seemed convinced it was a bluff to be called. Who would make the same play four times in a row? Again, only #25 marked #80, and again, the long pass. Iguchi was faster than #80, Kid could see that, and got to the ball first... reached... fumbled for the first time Kid could remember... and Deimon's receiver lunged forward to snatch it right out of his hands. 

As the ref lifted his arms for the touchdown, and #80 imitated him, ball still clutched in hand, #25 left the field to receive a royal chewing out from the coach. It was the fastest touchdown against Oujou in recent memory, and Kid could hear mutters around him about "the fallen kingdom", but in his mind, it was still too early to tell. 

Hiruma went for the kick, but missed by a long shot. Kid could've sworn Deimon had a kicker at some point, with a real powerful leg to him, but there was no sign of him today. 

While the teams switched sides, he spotted Oujou's #25 taking off his helmet, then his jersey, then his shoulder pads. As he began to unlace his pants, Kid swung his camera wildly away, disgusted. Once #25 was down to nothing but his jockstrap and cleats, the autumn air freezing the sweat on his bare skin, he began to jog around the outer loop of the stadium, all but naked, in full view of the audience, breath coming out in visible puffs in the cold. 

Kid had seen punishments like this before, of course, but he'd never given much thought to them, except to think how wasteful and ineffective it all seemed, and how he would never do it to his own team, slaves though they were. Now a slave himself, it gave him special pause: not just the pointless humiliation of it, but how resigned the cornerback was to this treatment, like it was almost a given outcome for his actions.

"No wonder Oujou is going down the drain," said Riku beside him, sourly. 

"Looking down on others never ends well," Kid said, with particular feeling, as he carefully moved his camera to keep #25 off-screen. "You never know when you'll end up in their shoes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my research for this chapter, I discovered that it's no longer considered cool among football players to wear a jock. I made the executive call that, in my alternate universe, people take better care of their junk.


	21. Eyeshield

Being tackled by Shin, Sena discovered, was every bit as painful as it looked. 

Now that Monta was constantly surrounded, and Oujou had retaken the lead, Sena should have expected to be given the ball for real—it was just that the weight of it settling into his hands felt like a live bomb. Even Shin, who had no line of sight on him, seemed to sense it somehow, like a hunting dog scenting prey: the instant the ball changed hands, Shin immediately diverted course to hone right in on him. 

Even knowing he was coming, Sena had nowhere to dodge to: there were too many bodies on the field, all targeting him, and he underestimated how far Shin could reach with that unfair height. Before he knew it, the same tackle that had saved him a few days ago from Habashira was slamming him into the ground. Face down on the astroturf, breath crushed out of his lungs, every instinct told Sena to stay down, just hold still and wait for the pain to end. That morning, Hiruma's pep talk had consisted of simply, "Protect the ball with your life," so he curled up around it best as he could, and braced himself. 

But Shin didn't continue to attack him. Of course not. The referee blew the whistle, and the threatening forms that had been bearing down on him a second ago now began to disperse. 

Shin even offered him a hand, which he cautiously accepted, expecting to be helped up. Instead, Shin all but picked him up and set him on his feet, as though he weighed no more than the football he was holding. To be fair, Shin had grounded him with hardly more than a flex of his fingers. It made sense he could just as easily lift him back up, or who knows, maybe even throw him across the field. 

"Thanks," said Sena shyly. "And for the other day too, I never got to—"

"Did I imagine it?" Shin cut in, expression unreadable, eyes flint hard. "Your speed that day."

Sena felt the breath rush out of his lungs, as if he'd been tackled all over again. The only thing he managed to choke out was a tiny, "S-sorry—" 

"Hey, back off!" came a voice from behind him. Sena broke away to see two of their linemen, Juumonji and Kuroki, scowling and advancing on them.

"What are you doing to our runner?" Kuroki added, reaching for his back, as if he normally had a weapon slung over it, and momentarily forgot it wasn't there. The two of them and their brother had always scared Sena, and the broken-off gesture didn't make him feel any better. 

Shin took this all in calmly and said, "Hmm," as he left.

"H-he really wasn't doing anything to me," said Sena, as the two of them each put a hand on one of his shoulders and began pushing him back to their side of the field. Sena felt more threatened by them at the moment than he had by Shin.

"Really? Because Hiruma said he was—" Juumonji suddenly seemed to notice they were frogmarching the terrified Sena between them. He dropped his hand and swatted Kuroki's arm away in the same gesture. "Well, it doesn't matter. We couldn't stop that fucker and he went for your skinny ass instead. Next time we'll make him fight someone his own size."

It was the last thing he'd expected to come out of Juumonji's mouth. This was the guy who'd almost stabbed Sena's hand on taco night when he'd put it down too close to Juumonji's plate. What on earth had Hiruma said to him?

Speaking of whom, they were starting to huddle up, and somehow he'd ended up directly across from Hiruma. He had seen others fail today and return to get a frothing, furious telling-off from their captain. He mentally prepared himself for the same, but instead Hiruma just gave him a long, strange look. "First time with the ball, I figured a nervous shrimp like you would be shrinking away from a fight. Instead you're running right at the enemy. Got some kind of death wish?"

"Sorry?" Sena was starting to sound repetitive, but it was the safest answer. He didn't know how to explain that being tackled, painful though it was, was far from his worst fear right now. Oujou was leading by a worrying margin. If he lost them their very first game, if his master decided he wasn't worthy of the team, he already knew the hell that awaited him. Yukimitsu wasn't even here, tasked with staying home and watching over Musashi, but Hiruma seemed to see some potential in him. Sena wasn't sure he himself would be so lucky, especially after he'd already been given a chance.

Hiruma was still looking at him with skepticism. Sena wanted to ask if he'd done the wrong thing, but Hiruma spoke first. "So how was it? Facing the strongest linebacker in the league."

"Shin seems amazing," Sena answered honestly. "So... fast." And powerful, and focused. But now that he was back on his feet, he couldn't help but feel a tad relieved. Being tackled hurt, but now that he'd experienced it once, he knew it was nothing he couldn't survive. If he could win them a little distance each time before he was taken down, he would gladly serve Hiruma in that slow, minuscule way, and accept the pain that came with it. It was far less excruciating than many of the ways he'd served previous owners, and it felt more meaningful somehow than being beaten simply because his owner was in the mood for it. He just wasn't sure if it was enough. 

"You're faster than him, you idiot." The others were all crowded around them by now, darkening the space in the huddle, but no one contradicted Hiruma. Could that be possible? Him, faster than that amazing Shin?

"Once you clear Shin, he won't be able to catch up to you, no matter how hard he tries. Just keep going. Nobody on this entire field can outrun you. You got that?" 

Sena nodded, more because it was the expected answer than because it made any sense. Even if he were faster, there was no way he could get past Shin, right? So what did it matter?

"Same play," Hiruma announced. "Fucking brothers, open a path for the shrimp if it kills you. I don't care if you can't hold it. Buy him a second. Half a second. He'll get through."

 _I will?_ thought Sena frantically.

"I rushed the scheduling of this game because Shin's been—" Here Hiruma seemed to bite off what he was going to say, as if reconsidering. Was it possible that even he had boundaries? "—out of practice. From here on, he's only going to get stronger. If you can't beat him in this state, you never will."

Sena carried that thought with him as they set up for the snap. He hoped Hiruma might go for a pass again, but no luck—the quarterback seemed intent on forcing this battle now. Accepting the ball, Sena tucked it to his body, and ran. Ahead of him, something seemed to be fueling the three brothers to a frenzy, because together the three of them managed to shove back Ootawara, the enemy lineman who was nearly as big as Kurita. Sena knew Ootawara would be back in position in a instant, but the instant was all he needed to dart through the center. Shin was at the edge of the field, this time there was no way he would be—

It all happened in glimpses. Shin charging, head down, eyes fixed forward, like he could gore Sena with them if he kept them aimed properly. Juumonji breaking away from Ootawara to reach for Shin, at the same time Shin reached for Sena. Over the baseline din on the field, he could hear a deeper, angrier growl tear from Juumonji's chest as he grasped Shin by the uniform. It wouldn't stop Shin by a long shot, but it slowed him a hair, and somehow that was enough for Sena to get past. 

He couldn't look behind him, but he could feel Shin right on his back. He would have thrown off Juumonji by now, his arm would be ready to extend. 

But.

Ahead of him, Sena could see all the way to the end zone. It was impossibly far away, but his master's voice echoed in his ear: _"Nobody on this entire field can outrun you."_ Shin was behind him, but there was no one in front. If he was fast enough, he could run clear to the end. 

And as he sped up into that desperate sprint that he'd practiced, for once it was to run towards something, instead of running away. For a moment suspended in time, Shin, Hiruma, everyone else in the stadium ceased to exist, as he pushed himself forward, harder, _harder_ —

When Monta had gotten his first touchdown, he'd lifted his arms into the air and roared with the crowd. As Sena passed the goal line, he found his feet slipping on the grass instead. He crashed forward onto his face, and felt the overwhelming noise of the crowd vibrating through the very ground beneath him. For a second he thought maybe Shin had caught up to him after all, and tackled him too late. Then he realized that his legs had simply given out. 

Painfully, he pushed himself onto his gloved hands so he could look behind him. To his shock, Shin was half a field away, staring at him with that same intense expression. This time Sena didn't find it nearly so inscrutable or intimidating, because something within him responded in echo. For the first time in his life, he was allowed—no, ordered—to fight back, and this weak, tiny body of his somehow felt like it might contain the power to do so. 

Maybe that was why his heart was drumming so hard in his chest.

Maybe that was why he was actually looking forward to facing Shin again.


	22. Coach

Iguchi's punishment ended at halftime: as he rounded his final loop, Coach was there waiting for him, Jari-Pro-branded blanket spread invitingly between two ring-encrusted hands. 

Watching them come into the heated locker room, Shin couldn't help but find it sinister, Iguchi rubbing his cold limbs all over, huddling into the blanket that Coach solicitously held wrapped around his shoulders. Why had the coach brought a blanket to the game at all? Had this sort of penalty become standard, in the time that Shin was away? 

Miracle Ito was a spindly man with slick, shiny hair and an equally slick, shiny smile. Dressed in his perpetual pinstripes and the gleam of gold all over him—fingers, wrist, even in his mouth—it was obvious he was no athlete, but the problem went deeper than that. Shin knew that Miracle had started out as the president of Jari Productions, and his main interest still lay with the talent agency that was their original business, not with sports. What was more difficult to understand was why, when Jari-Pro had acquired the football team, Miracle had insisted on taking over as coach, instead of leaving Shogun to do what he did best. Shogun would never have given Iguchi, a talented player, a punishment that put him out of commission for the rest of the match. For that matter, Shogun would have never had Iguchi cover that receiver on his own—not after the third play, when Iguchi's confidence was clearly struck, nor even after that very first play, when #80's catch clearly shouldn't have been attributed to luck. 

But they didn't have Shogun, they only had Miracle. 

As Shin stretched in front of his locker, he became aware that the coach had finished fussing over Iguchi, and was coming towards him. After his performance in the first half, Shin almost expected to be ordered to take Iguchi's place running punishment laps, but Miracle instead reached down without a word—Shin had to concentrate not to deflect the hand on instinct—to snag a tear on Shin's jersey that he himself hadn't noticed.

"We can't have that," Miracle tsked. "Our players have to look their best at all times."

"It must have been when Deimon's lineman grabbed me." Shin released his calves and started to get up from the stretch. "I have a spare."

"Nonsense, nonsense." Inexplicably, the coach had a sewing kit in his breast pocket. Shin tried to decide which would be stranger: Miracle having seen the tear during the game, amidst all the chaos on the field, and preparing the kit in advance, or Miracle always having the kit on his person for situations like this. As the coach began to thread the needle, Shin made to pull off the jersey, but was just waved back down again.

"I take care of my players, don't I, Shin?" Miracle pulled the fabric away from Shin's arm and began to stitch with quick, darting motions. 

It didn't seem like a question requiring an answer, but Shin was better trained than that. "Yes, Coach." 

He couldn't keep stretching while Miracle still had his sleeve in hand, so he carefully toweled half of his face, and visualized the stretches that he planned to finish after this, which studies showed was the next best thing, envisioning each motion with his muscles as well as his mind. The needle never touched him, but Miracle's hand occasionally brushed against his skin, feeling dry and light as paper, and breaking his concentration each time. 

"Yes, I do," Miracle agreed with himself as he worked. "Whichever side of the business I put them on—talent or football—my goal is always for them to excel." 

Talent seemed like a bizarre word to describe Shin's work for the last half a year, when he'd spent the majority of the time immobilized, half conscious, or both. He supposed the term was more applicable toward a higher class of escorts, such as—

"You were friends with my Sakuraba, weren't you?" said Miracle suddenly, brightly, as if reading his mind. Shin clutched the towel on reflex, to avoid dropping it. 

Were? 

_His?_

"He's been asking after you."

"I see." Shin kept his voice carefully neutral, but somehow it still drew a 'tut' from Miracle.

"Now, don't give me that. Do I have to remind you that I saw his potential from the start, before any of you? I knew he wasn't suited to this... this..." Miracle let go of the jersey to wiggle his fingers expressively. "That boy nearly gave me a heart attack every time he went out on the field! I'll never know what changed his mind, but I'm so glad he let me rescue him before he could sustain any life-altering injuries. You know, I always rather suspected you had something to do with that."

"Did you," said Shin tightly.

Miracle seemed to notice that Shin's hands were clenched, his shoulders rigid, and quickly tied off the needle and thread. The kit produced a tiny pair of scissors that looked like they'd break if Shin so much as looked at them wrong; Miracle used them to neatly clip the thread before backing up in a hurry. 

It was tidy work, Shin had to admit. As soon as Miracle released the fabric, Shin lost track of where the rip had ever been. It didn't seem like the coach was done with him yet, but they only had so much time before the second half, so Shin compromised by resuming his stretches, and attempting to listen with half an ear.

"Anyway, I can't say I'm as... enthusiastic about the sport as old Shogun before me, but I know it's important to you boys, so I'm trying to keep the team profitable. For your sake, understand? The investors have already been hounding me to close down the football division, focus on our strengths as an agency. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, Shin? There's only so much I can do to keep them at bay. Something has to change, if we want to justify keeping the team afloat. This is what you enjoy, isn't it? Football?"

The question caught Shin off guard. If it was a matter of skill, or what he'd been training for his whole life, the answer would have been obvious. Even a question of preference between the two options would have been simply answered, because it wasn't as though he particularly cared for the sex work. But did he enjoy football? 

"I couldn't say," he settled on, because it wasn't as though he'd chosen this. There weren't so many branching paths open to him that he had ever spent the time to ponder what he _enjoyed_. 

But as he grabbed the edge of his locker to pull himself up, a sudden sense memory swamped him, and made an immediate liar of him: that heady feeling of pushing his body to its limits, reaching with all his might, yet still seeing the back of that #21 jersey shrinking away from him. Wanting nothing more than to catch him, a physical, full-body grasping for that retreating form, so all-consuming that it pushed all other thoughts, worries, recriminations, into distant white noise.

"You did ask to come back to the team," Miracle was saying, while Shin stared down the length of his arm, as though expecting to see #21 at the end of it. 

"I did," he said slowly.

"If you want there to continue to be a team to come back to, then do better! I want to keep you boys doing what you love, I really do. But that means you have to be good at it. I can't take care of you if you don't take care of yourselves."

"Understood." 

"Good." Miracle patted his shoulder, perhaps not realizing that Shin couldn't feel it through the bulk of his shoulder pads. "Good, good, good." 

Now that Shin was standing at his full height, Miracle seemed ready to retreat, and Shin found himself feeling the same way. The cold air outside was refreshing after the locker room, and as he took a deep, invigorating breath of it and spotted most of the Deimon team already at their bench, he began moving towards them, as though tugged by an invisible force.

"Let me get this straight," one of them was saying, as Shin approached. "In all the training you had us do—y'know, on top of a mountain, in the rain, in the middle of the goddamn night—you never had any of us practice kicking?"

"We already have a kicker, dumbass," Hiruma was sat on the bench, stomping his foot repeatedly on the ground, as if to crush his latest bad kick out of it. 

"Then why isn't he here?"

"Don't be an idiot, that fucking old man's our secret weapon, we can't bring him out in a practice match."

"I thought Sena was our secret weapon," said the receiver who had scored Deimon their first touchdown, and unknowingly taken Iguchi out of the match. 

"Can't be a secret if the whole Oujou team knows about it. And would you look at that, the soldier spy is back for more." This last, as Hiruma spotted him approaching, and gave him a classic, scheming Hiruma grin. There was no acknowledgement that the last time they had seen each other, it had been half-naked, in a temple to transactional sex, and Shin had been the transaction. "Ready for the second half, fucking monster? We're going for nothing but runs, we already know you can't handle it."

"You don't need to use such mind games with me, Hiruma," said Shin, busy scanning the group. It wasn't until his eyes fell on the running back that he was looking for, that he realized his tone might have been a little too familiar. If Hiruma wasn't going to bring up their recent history, Shin certainly wouldn't be the one to do so.

Hiruma gave a short, sharp whistle, and motioned toward Shin. Startled, #21 jumped up from where he was sitting and came over to meet him face to face. Well, face to chest. This close, Shin was struck by how short and slight the light-speed running back was. Unlike most of the other players Shin encountered, #21 didn't look like a slave who had been trained from youth to be an athlete. He certainly didn't have the stamina for it: after his touchdown, he'd been helped off the field by his teammates, and had spent the entire rest of the quarter lying down on the bench. He still looked pale and shaky, but there was a new set to his shoulders that hadn't been there at the start of the match. Even now, he was improving.

Shin lifted his hand, but before he could clap the other player on the shoulder, or possibly support him if he fell over like he nearly seemed about to, one of Deimon's linemen inserted himself between them, and stopped Shin's arm with his own. "What are you doing here," he said. "Trying to intimidate Sena? Get lost!" It was the same one that had defended Sena earlier, and ripped Shin's sleeve. The team was more close-knit than he'd expected. Shin knew he'd have to get past all these defenses, if he wanted to catch the running back.

The question was a fair one; Shin couldn't have said why he was here either, except running after Sena had felt so golden and right, that maybe some part of him had instinctively chased the man all the way to this bench.

"You won our last battle. I look forward to the next one," he said finally, and saw Sena brighten in response. For a moment it looked like Sena might say something, but then he hunched slightly and looked down at the ground between them.

"Nothing but runs," Hiruma laughed and promised for him, as the aggressive lineman finally let Shin go.


	23. The line

Perfect player. Best linebacker. A real fucking monster. 

In all the time Juumonji had been stuck playing this sport, he'd never heard this Shin guy spoken of with anything but sickening awe and respect. So far in their match, Juumonji had seen Shin's power, skill, speed... but not what all the hype was about.

Then came the second half, and Shin was a new man. 

Even after the short halftime break, Deimon was wearing down: they'd been covering offense and defense both, with no one to switch out with other than those shitty substitutes. 

On the other hand, there was Shin, who was suddenly turned up to eleven, like the entire match so far had been nothing but his warm up. He played like a man possessed, letting nothing and no one stand between him and his goal. 

The goal which, Juumonji reflected to himself, lying winded on his ass, staring up into the blue sky, was usually crushing Sena into the ground.

Juumonji wasn't an idiot. It was obvious that all the stuff Hiruma said—how Shin played to injure his opponents, how he had it out for Sena, got him roughed up by Habashira's gang before the game, how he'd use any underhanded tactics to win—it was all made up, whatever the hell the quarterback could come up with to try to rile them up, get them to protect Sena, their new teammate they'd only laid eyes on a few days ago. Hell, that last one sounded more like Hiruma describing himself than what they'd seen of Shin. 

But it didn't change the fact that Sena had been through some shit, and needed protecting. From the first time he'd seen that scrawny ass get bowled over by Shin's unstoppable charge, something just seemed to click. Even now, if Juumonji just tilted his head, he knew he'd see Sena struggling to push himself back up, ready to do whatever it took to please his _master_. So he didn't look.

Honestly? It reminded him of Kuroki and Toganou in the old days, though they'd never hear him say it. His father could have picked any slaves for the harsh, dangerous work he needed in his scrapyard, but he deliberately brought home two boys close to his son's age. Beat them, starved them, kept them outdoors like animals. That asshole never said as much, but Juumonji knew it was meant to be a lesson for him. The more he saw of Sena, flinching, groveling, the more he felt like he'd been transported back ten years. "Don't associate with slaves, you're better than that." Ha! Fuck that old man, Juumonji had taken the slaves—his _friends_ —and run, and never looked back. After years of roughing it on the streets, the entire rest of the team probably thought he was some runaway slave too, but they didn't care one way or another, and that's why he stayed. 

And if he stayed, it meant he had to keep playing this damn game. 

With a groan, he shoved himself to his feet, and went to help Kuroki pull Toganou up too. The two of them had been on board when he'd said the game was stupid, Hiruma was insane, and they should bide their time and then get the hell out. Juumonji hadn't been able to explain why things were different now, and the other two still didn't take their training seriously, just like he didn't use to. But they were still here, so.

A quick glance-over told him that they were both fine. Disgruntled, but fine. Finally, Juumonji turned to check on the aftermath of the "perfect player" getting through them yet again. Sena was sitting up, but hunched over, clutching his face. There was blood dripping down between his fingers, around his hand, and Juumonji had a visceral flashback of finding a young Kuroki clutching a bloody nose, trying to hold back the sounds of pain that would only get him worse. It took him a second to realize the tall figure looming over him wasn't Juumonji's old man, but Shin, who looked assessingly at the injury and then walked away without a word—making all the things Hiruma had said about him seem just a little more plausible. 

By then Kurita and Hiruma were there, Kurita urging Sena to tilt his head back and take his hand away. "Just a nosebleed," said Kurita, sighing in relief, while Hiruma fumed. 

"I'm okay, master," Sena was saying, thickly, "I can keep going."

"I'd have you run until you bled dry if I could," Hiruma pointed at Sena, then swept his finger toward the locker rooms, "but the fucking rules don't agree. Go get cleaned up, you're out until I say so." 

Sena looked even more shaken from that than from the injury, but obediently staggered off. Kurita made to help him, but Hiruma snagged him before he could get anywhere. "Not you, fatty, we're starting any minute." 

Despite that, he didn't move, instead growling to himself, looking around the field, eyes falling on nothing but their active players, substitutes, and enemies. Finally, he gestured at a pocket of seats near the front of the audience and yelled loudly, "Hey! Fucking eyebrows!" 

There was a bunch of commotion in the area he pointed, but the one who finally drawled back, "You mean me?" was a stubbly guy wearing a cowboy hat. 

"Go help the fucking shrimp. We're short-handed."

Juumonji thought there was no way this random person would just do as Hiruma said, but he must have been strong on his blackmail game, because after thinking it over briefly, the cowboy complied.

"Who was that?" Juumonji asked.

"Get your mind in the game," Hiruma snapped. "We're down 20 points, five minutes on the clock. We have to make this count. Huddle up!"

They gathered. 

"They know we're going to pass, so that's why we're going to run. Fucking sub 1, you look slow as shit. You're a decoy. Sub 2, you take the ball." Juumonji hadn't been playing this game too long, but even he could tell this was some desperation strategy. Hiruma just never quit. But before they could get into position, someone called out from the sidelines: the cowboy was back, empty-handed. 

"What now?" Hiruma snapped. "Where's the shrimp?"

"He wasn't there," said the cowboy. "I looked all over. Maybe he ran."

Hiruma ignored the second part, like it was totally inconceivable. "What do you mean, he wasn't there. He's having a fucking nosebleed in the bathroom."

"Bathroom was empty," the cowboy insisted. "The kid's gone."

They were still on timeout, so Hiruma marched over to where his stuff was sitting, and checked something on his phone. He was quiet for a long, long time, before he looked up and said, in the same brash voice that he normally used to outline some trick play, "Listen up! We're conceding." 

The team's reaction was loud and instantaneous, but Hiruma talked over them as he crammed stuff into his bag, "Fatty, you handle things with Oujou, I'm out of here."

"This isn't like you," said Juumonji, jogging to catch up. "To give up on winning."

"I'm doing this _to_ win. Beating Oujou in this practice match doesn't get us anything. Getting back our fucking runner without a scratch on him will get us to the Christmas Bowl."

"So you think he's going to get scratched," Juumonji noted. "I'm coming with you."

To his surprise, Hiruma only sighed in exasperation. "Come if you want, but don't bring the other two."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself I was going to gloss over the football, but I just wrote four chapters about one match! I'm as bad as the manga!!


	24. Kidnapper 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more violent than previous ones. It should be mild by AO3 standards, but out of an abundance of caution, I've added some content warnings to the end-of-chapter notes.

"What the hell, Agon?" someone said, as Sena was shoved into the back seat of an old gray sedan. "This is insane. Even for you!" 

At least the hand clamped over his mouth was gone now, allowing Sena to take some quick, ragged breaths. His nose was still bleeding sluggishly; in all the other terror, he'd also started to worry seriously about suffocation during the dragging, struggling way through the parking lot.

It hadn't been much of a struggle, though.

"You're letting Hiruma get to you," said another voice, oddly familiar, from the driver's seat.

The sound of his master's name jerked Sena back to himself. What was he doing, just lying there? He had to get back. With all the strength left in his sore, tired body, he lunged for the opposite door, trying to remember that powerful feeling earlier, of propelling himself toward the goal line. 

The reaction was instant. He got exactly nowhere before a hand grabbed the back of his jersey and casually slammed him face-forward onto the center console, between the two front seats.

"Look," said Agon, shoving Sena's head down, not so much rough as careless of his own immense strength. A bruising touch low on the back of his neck, where the incision for the tracker chip had long ago scarred, made Sena shiver. "It's just a slave. Now drive."

The terror deepened to a bone-chilling dread. He had made his bid for freedom fully expecting retaliation if he failed, but not only had he gotten nowhere close, his captor had completely disregarded it, the same way he'd ignore a beetle buzzing around in a jar. He had complete, unthinking confidence he could keep Sena in line, and it seemed perfectly warranted—he'd caught Sena the second he moved, and thrown him around like a ragdoll. 

"Agon..." said the driver warningly, and Sena realized why the voice sounded familiar: it was exactly the same as Agon's, only coming from a different direction.

" _Drive_ ," Agon growled, and this time the driver did move, elbow jabbing dangerously close to Sena's face as he shifted the gears and pulled out. 

"I thought it was weird," said the guy in the passenger seat. "You taking an interest in a match for once." 

"I _was_ interested." Agon jerked Sena back, again by the shirt collar, and flung him against the seat, an effortless gesture that nevertheless knocked the breath out of him. "Just not in watching those trash play."

"You got blood on my car again." The driver motioned down at the center console, where Sena's bloody nose had left an irregular stain on the armrest.

"Don't look at me, he was like that when I found him." Agon touched the blood on Sena's face, then grimaced and wiped it off on Sena's jersey. "Mostly."

As soon as Agon looked away, Sena scrabbled for the door, and was cuffed on the side of his head for his efforts. "Don't do that." It had clearly been a light blow by Agon's standards, but Sena saw stars. Clutching his head, he shrank back into his seat and curled into himself. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it shaking his chest, no, his entire body. 

Now that he could see the others in the car, he noticed that they were all wearing the same brown monk robes as Agon. The guy in the passenger's seat had spiky black hair and a Buddhist dot on his prominent forehead. He was also conspicuously not looking back at Sena, which told him all he needed to know about whether he'd get any help there, when Agon began... whatever it was he intended to do. 

He couldn't see into the driver's seat, but he could tell the driver who had Agon's exact voice didn't have his dreadlocks, at least. It didn't feel like he would would help either, unless he felt really strongly about blood in his car. More blood.

A hand landed roughly on his head, and Sena choked back a yelp. He hadn't even seen the other man move. 

"I'm not even doing anything, and you're scared out of your mind," Agon chuckled. "No wonder that trash gets his rocks off with you." The hand began to rub vigorously through his hair, like he was a dog, or a towel. Sena tried to hold himself still, but found himself flinching at every back-and-forth pass, expecting the pain promised by those powerful fingers to materialize any moment, to jab, or gash, or clench. When they finally gabbed a handful of his hair and yanked, Sena had just enough time to regret how long it had grown, before he was being stretched out over the seat, mewling and crying, until the back of his head came to a rest against his captor's thigh. 

"Agon!" said the driver sharply, but kept his hands on the wheel.

When Sena tried to curl his knees to his chest, Agon immediately delivered a swat to his leg, a clear sign. Hastily, he straightened out again, hating how vulnerable it left him.

Never releasing his hold, Agon bent down until his dreadlocks caged Sena's face, grin like a sharp cut of moon in the now-dim space between them. "I bet Hiruma just loves this, doesn't he? Having a scared and submissive slave under him, whimpering at every slightest little thing."

Submit, said something inside Sena, catching on the one word in the entire harsh whisper that seemed to make sense. Agon wasn't Sena's master, but he had a fistful of Sena's hair and another hand free to harm him in unimaginable ways. Sena already knew the power in that hand, the deadly intent in Agon's gaze. He was prey caught in the lion's jaw. If the lion chose not to bite down, he should count himself lucky. 

"What..." Sena swallowed unevenly, "what do you want me to do? So you don't hurt me?"

Agon threw back his head and roared with laughter, the shaking motion sending his dreads flying, making his grip tug painfully on Sena's scalp. "You might be trash, the lot of you, but you can be so amusing, you know that?" He patted Sena's chest, hard enough to creak the shoulder pads under his jersey. "What makes you think there's anything you can do?"

"We're almost there," the driver interrupted. From this position, Sena could finally see that he looked just like Agon, except shaved bald, and with a deep weariness dragging down his features. Carefully, he added, "How long are you going to keep him?"

"Depends how long it takes that trash to come pick up." As the car swerved and slowed, the hand moved from Sena's chest up to his throat, and just rested there, heavy and threatening. "Should be a fun wait."

"Looks like it won't be a long one," said the man in the passenger seat, as they pulled to a stop. He seemed to be staring at something outside the windshield, and the driver too. Sena couldn't see, but under his head, he could feel Agon's body clench in anger, and cringed, bracing for the hand around his throat to follow suit.

The driver pulled the handbrake, and then turned. Purposely didn't look down at Sena, but only at his twin. "Do you want me to handle this?"

Growling, Agon slammed his door open, "I've got this _handled_ , thanks," and dragged Sena out by the hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: hair-pulling, blood, insinuations, and Sena getting hit and thrown around. 


	25. Two impossibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind words - it makes my day! 
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, I'm at yelpfic. I post to announce a new chapter, or when I get stuck on writing the story and decide to write about writing the story instead.
> 
> This chapter has similar content warnings to the previous one. 

It felt blasphemous to be huddling at someone else's feet when his master was right there before him. 

After dragging him what felt like miles, Agon had finally released his painful grip to dump Sena in a heap, and stepped right over his head to snarl at whoever he'd been stalking towards. It took a minute for Sena's vision to clear, but the first thing he saw was unmistakably Hiruma, just a few short steps away—and just as distant as outer space, with Agon looming between them.

"I wasn't trying to run—" Sena blurted, desperate to make his case, but Agon cut him off with a kick that sent him sprawling across the pavement. Part of him rebelled at the idea of submitting to someone else right under his master's eye, but by this point, he was terrified of moving and drawing Agon's painful attentions again. Instead, he found himself trembling helplessly on the ground, caught between two impossibilities. 

From where he sat, a few steps up a massive stone staircase carved into a mountain that seemed, from this vantage point, to rise infinitely into the sky, Hiruma didn't react, just watched. With him were some of the last people Sena expected to see: Juumonji, who always seemed about a minute and one good reason away from violence, and Habashira, who hadn't needed even that, the last time they'd crossed paths. 

If it hadn't been for a seething Agon right in front of him, radiating pure menace, Sena might have called it the most terrifying trio he could think of. As it was, he didn't want to imagine what would happen if things turned to violence after all. He didn't see how they could have gotten here so fast, or known where to go, until he spotted two more of Habashira's guys in the distance, along with their bikes—three bikes, with three bikers, who had sped the two of Hiruma and Juumonji here. Sena couldn't help but wonder, hope, if the numbers meant they were planning to take him back with them. 

"You didn't bring the mongrel," Agon was saying, as he toed at Sena's leg, worrying it back and forth, like a cat idly pawing at a trapped mouse. Humiliatingly, Sena couldn't find it within himself to put up any resistance, and allowed his limbs to be pushed across the warm, dusty stone of the ground, mentally begging his master for forgiveness. "I thought you'd have brains enough at least to figure out why I took your little pet, but you were just trash after all." 

"Fucking monk," called Hiruma, not to Agon, but past him. Sena could sense the barely-contained rage in the way Agon's shoe pressed down just a little harder on his shin, right where the protection of his knee pad ended. The car was only a few feet behind them, and the other two robed men were getting out, the one from the passenger seat carrying two duffel bags and slinging a third over his shoulder, Agon's twin scrubbing the center armrest with a paper towel that came away bloody. "You really fine with this? Helping your brother do crime." 

Sena immediately recognized that needling tone of his master's, the one he could use to get under anyone's skin. It wasn't clear which brother he was aiming it at, but Sena hoped for his own sake that it wasn't Agon, who was already fuming at being ignored, and seemed to be building up to an explosion that only had one possible outlet. 

"I have no part in this," Agon's twin said, taking two of the bags from his companion and dumping one of them at Agon's feet on his way by, thankfully missing Sena by a wide margin. "I wash my hands of it." The two of them calmly climbed past Hiruma's step and proceeded up the rest of the stairs. In the far altitude, there seemed to be the hint of a temple, all the way at the top, that they were heading for.

If Hiruma's goal was to manipulate Agon's supporters to leave, it was working—but before they'd gotten very far, Hiruma stopped them with a sharp, "Unsui," and stood up. "Do you ever wonder if you're the reason he's like this?"

The twin froze mid-stride. 

"Growing up with his entire family licking his ass, like he shits gold and wishes—you ever think that's why he turned out to be such an impulsive, short-sighted narcissist?"

Sena cried out, as Agon kicked him bruisingly in the side at that, but of the others, only Juumonji turned to look at him.

"Unsui..." said the other monk.

"Calmly, Ikkyu," Unsui replied, and began to climb again. "We won't let him perturb us." After a beat, Ikkyu followed suit.

"So," Agon growled, "First you don't bring me what's mine, then you ignore me and chat up Unko-chan instead. Guess you don't care what happens to this trash, huh?" While the others were talking, Agon had, with a series of kicks and prods, arranged Sena on his back, arms and legs splayed out, an utterly vulnerable position that promised something terrible in his near future—but he didn't dare move an inch from it, except to turn his head and look at Hiruma with pleading eyes. 

For his part, Hiruma didn't seem concerned at all, but Sena couldn't figure out if it meant he had a plan to stop Agon from hurting him, or if it meant he planned no such thing. "That fucking old man, yours? Looks like your early-onset dementia's acting up again, so let me remind you." Hiruma stepped off the stairs, and cackled up into Agon's face. "You bet that Musashi couldn't beat you, and even in the condition you left him in, after all those fucking _years_ under your thumb, he still proved you wrong." A hint of pride crept into Hiruma's crooked grin. "What a shitty sore loser you are, you fucking dreads, still trying to pretend it never happened."

For Sena, the pieces were only now falling into place: Musashi had been owned by Agon, for years. After only a brief car ride with Agon, Musashi's screaming nightmares suddenly made all the sense in the world. Sena could only begin to imagine what years would do. 

"That's why it's called a _trade_ ," Agon explained slowly, as if used to talking to lower intellects. "You give me back what you stole from me, and I don't break what I stole from you."

"Can't get it through your thick fucking skull—" Hiruma laughed, even as Juumonji spoke up.

"You can't just _break_ Sena. He doesn't belong to you."

"So what," Agon said, dismissive. "He's property, I'll fuck him up and pay for a new one. Really, I'm surprised. I know you trash had a pathetic dream of taking us on in the tournament. Weren't you going to do it with these legs?"

These legs, Sena thought, that had run a quarter of the match, then been too exhausted to continue, and had never gotten past Shin in the second half, not even once. It was starting to dawn on him that Hiruma might not be here to recover him at all, especially if the cost was Musashi.

"Is that broken shell really worth it? You didn't even play him today. He couldn't, right?" Agon smirked suddenly. "Don't underestimate my handiwork."

But Sena went cold, because he knew—to Hiruma, Musashi was worth it. Without having to dig particularly hard, a dozen little pieces of proof floated to mind, observations from living with them just a few weeks: a look of concern, a steadying arm, a profanity-riddled rant softening when Hiruma remembered who he was talking to.

As if echoing his thoughts, Hiruma said, "You are never fucking getting him," still grinning, an incongruous look on him while the two standing next to him looked so grim.

"Guess you've finally woken up to reality," Agon sighed, "that your shitty dreams were never possible in the first place. Well then, if you've given up on these legs... I'll break them."

And Agon set his foot on Sena's left knee, looking perfectly ready to stomp down.

"No, no, please," Sena cried, flailing involuntarily, trying to push himself up. Agon simply stepped on his chest instead, easily pinning him back down, but at least it wasn't his legs. If he had any value to his master at all, it was his legs—

But Hiruma made no move forward. Juumonji, and even Habashira, looked more concerned than he did. The reason was obvious: Hiruma wasn't going to trade. He had never been planning on taking Sena back. He had known what Agon wanted, and come empty-handed. As the reality of the situation set in, and Sena realized he was going to be left here at Agon's mercy, to go through whatever had broken Musashi—starting with, very literally, his legs—he found himself struggling for breath, each gasp of air coming short and shallow, and not just from the pressure of Agon's heel.

"Aww, look at him go," said Agon, indulgent. "Last chance, trashes."

Juumonji looked ready to jump in and punch Agon in the face, and even Habashira seemed to be going a little green, but Hiruma just shrugged and said, "You're right. We can't go to the Christmas Bowl without those legs, so that's too bad. But at least while we're sitting around all sad and shivering on Christmas day, I'll still have one cheery thought to warm my cold, dead heart."

"You talk too much," Agon said, but still he waited, listening.

"That the once-in-100-years talent, Agon himself, admitted how fucking afraid he was of the Deimon Devilbats."

"Aah?" The foot pressed down a little harder, pushing a wheeze from Sena's chest. "Now what nonsense is coming out of that trash mouth of yours?"

"You both heard him, right?" said Hiruma gleefully, turning to Juumonji, then Habashira. "You just heard him say, to my face, that he was sooo scared Shinryuuji would lose to us in the finals, that he had to resort to fucking sabotage, just so he could sleep easy at night." 

And like a switch, Hiruma's face turned serious. "You were watching the game today, weren't you, fucking dreads? You could tell the shrimp was faster than you. So you turned to this." Hiruma waved a hand.

The pressure on Sena's chest was becoming unbearable, and he choked out, "Please, master," knowing he was begging for an impossible reprieve, hands scraping against the stone to either side of him, though he couldn't possibly fight the _ground_ , any more than he could fight Agon.

Juumonji grabbed Hiruma's arm, as if to restrain him, but Hiruma just continued, "Didn't you always use to say that 22 of you would be the perfect team? But here you are, because yet again we have a player who's better than you, who threatens you. If you need to hurt the shrimp off the field, you're as good as admitting you can't catch him on it."

The wait—and the weight—dragged on interminably until Agon finally, finally eased up. Slowly, he set his foot down, next to Sena's leg, rather than crunching through it. Plucked up Sena by the shoulder pads, set him on his feet, and brushed the dirt off him with exaggerated gentleness, while Sena shivered at the barely-veiled threat in every touch. 

"I'm still going to break you," Agon said to him, with a perfectly even, congenial tone. "If by some miracle you trashes ever make it far enough to face us on the field, I'll crush every last one of your bones, and make sure you never walk off it." 

With that, he gave Sena a hard shove in the back, sending him stumbling toward the others. Instead of catching him, Hiruma neatly sidestepped, and let him fall into Juumonji, who steadied Sena with strong arms. "Let's go," Juumonji said to Habashira, or maybe to Sena, and immediately began pulling him away, toward the motorcycles.

"You'll have to catch up to him first," Hiruma pointed out, as Juumonji fitted a helmet over Sena's head, and helped him up onto the back of one of the bikes, lifting up his shaking arms to wrap them around the gangster driving it. He had a quick discussion with Habashira, and then got on with the other biker, leaving Habashira behind to wait. 

Clutching the leather-clad body in front of him, Sena half wondered if this was a dream, a desperate hallucination, while his real body still lay on that ground. The motorcycle vibrating beneath him felt vivid and real, as did the roar of the engine, and the cutting wind as they turned toward the road, passing by the parked gray car that had brought him here a lifetime ago. 

As they rode off, Sena watched over his shoulder as long as he could. Hiruma remained there, staring Agon down, the both of them grinning at each other without a trace of amusement on either of their faces, until they both grew too small to see.


	26. Devil on your back

Habashira's life was nothing short of a mess, a constant disaster. Some days it was all he could do to keep his team together and practicing, and those were the good days. 

Today was not a good day.

Riding away from Shinryuuji temple like it might get up and chase them, not five minutes had gone by before his passenger said from behind him, "Pull over."

"What?" Shinryuuji was out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and they were speeding along a dirt road with actual goddamn rice paddies to either side. He wasn't about to go wading, and didn't see why Hiruma would either.

"Pull. Over," Hiruma repeated, over the roar of the engine. 

Well. When you've got a devil riding your back, what's the point in arguing? Habashira hit the brakes. Before he had even come to a full stop, Hiruma's weight disappeared from behind him, and there was the thump of his feet, then his bag, hitting the ground.

"What's this about?" Habashira said, taking the time to pull his bike to the side of the road—as if there was going to be anyone else coming through here this century—shut the engine, kick out the stand.

Pulling off his helmet, he turned around just in time to see a fist flying at his face. "What the hell!" He barely dodged it, but Hiruma was relentless, swinging wildly, with not just fists, but elbows, knees, claws. 

"I don't know what the hell this is!" Habashira tried to grab a flailing limb, but Hiruma was uncoordinated, and unpredictable. "You wanna get hit or something?" If so, Habashira didn't doubt that he could oblige. Hiruma wasn't exactly an Agon; he didn't have the reaction times, or the physical strength, or the sheer animal brutality. But part of Habashira still shied from it. In a way, it was safer to sock Agon one—he'd break your wrist and be done with it. With the demon Hiruma, you had no idea when he'd pull out that nasty blackmail book of his, or what he'd make you do with it. 

So Habashira tried, he really did. He backed away, he blocked, he tried to hold Hiruma off using his longer reach. But when the hand he grabbed for slipped past him and raked him across the jaw, that was the last damn straw. 

"Okay, fuck off!" he said. "You've got me in that book of yours, but I'm not going to hold still and get punched. I'm warning you—" 

Hiruma kneed him in the gut, or tried to. Habashira parried, turned, and punched the other man right in the face, something he'd been dying to do for years now. The blow seemed to catch Hiruma by surprise, and knocked him backwards—he barely managed to catch himself on a knee, one hand splayed on the dirt. Habashira's giddy delight at having accomplished what was, frankly, a life-long dream of his, abruptly tinged with panic. You didn't get away scot-free with punching the devil in the face. 

But Hiruma only surged back at him, feral, screeching. Habashira couldn't not defend himself, and he couldn't deny that it felt good to finally lay into the guy, damn the consequences, striking him in the chest, the gut, the face again. 

Within just a few adrenaline-soaked minutes, they were both spent. Dodging a particularly uncoordinated series of strikes, he managed to catch one of Hiruma's forearms after the other, and strained against them, holding him in place. 

"This isn't where you should be fighting," Habashira panted. As much as he'd always wanted to punch the man, now that he'd gotten a few hits in, he felt even more uneasy. "Physical brawls? That's not your strong suit. And I'm not who you should be fighting either," he added, almost petulant. "Haven't I done everything you've asked? Run your every errand? Jumped at every snap of your fingers?"

As fast as this had all started, when Hiruma finally burned out, it went just as quickly. "You did good," he sighed, sagging against Habashira's hold. His lip was split and bleeding, and there was the start of an impressive shiner forming on his eye, from that first glorious blow. And that was just what was visible. "Getting us there that fast, fucking lizard. You did good." 

Habashira released the other man out of sheer surprise. Wiped his own mouth, and came away bloody. He probably looked rough himself, but the part of him that had been keeping tally thought he'd come out ahead.

"Your fucking Chameleons team is getting ready for regionals now, isn't it?" Hiruma said, staggering to his bag, where he'd thrown it down by the motorcycle.

"Only when I'm around to kick their lazy asses in gear—" Habashira started, then choked off as Hiruma came up from digging around, little black book in hand. 

He took a wary step back, as if there was any limit to the blast radius on that thing. He had known there would be consequences, but damn it, Hiruma had attacked first. No one would have just stood there and taken it. "Look," he tried, motioning to his own swollen face, "you gave as good as you got, so..."

Undeterred, Hiruma flipped open the right page, paused to give him a tired shadow of smirk, and then made a long, sharp scratch with what seemed to be an excessively showy flourish of his pen. "Go get your team in shape, fucking lizard." 

Habashira's entire tongue fell out of his mouth, as his jaw went slack. "Wh-what?"

"You're free. I hereby release you from your fucking bondage, or whatever." Hiruma flicked the book back into his bag, and slumped again, this time against the motorcycle seat. "Can I still get a ride back though? Not an order. A fucking favor." And he grinned, blood on his teeth.

Seasons passed, the rice in the paddies grew and fell and grew again, before Habashira finally managed, "You're not right in the head, you know that?" 

They started off again, Hiruma wrapped loosely around his back, same as before, except both of them were bloody and swollen all over. After a while, he said, "You didn't actually cross anything out, did you. In that notebook. That was, what, dramatic effect?"

"Just fucking drive," said Hiruma, and dropped his chin to rest on the shoulder in front of him. 


	27. Making hay

"Seems serious," Kid muttered, as he joined his team back in the stands. Maybe another captain would have given up on a point gap so impossibly wide, so impossibly late in the game, but not Hiruma, who had a reputation for clinging on through—and coming back from—worse. For him to actually concede, "serious" was an understatement.

Tetsuma was still rigidly pointing the camera down at the field, though all it captured now were the confused, scurrying motions of the two teams trying to go through their closing ceremonies with key members missing—made all the more obvious by how small the Deimon team had been to start with.

As Kid took the camera from Tetsuma and knelt to put it away, he became aware that Riku was staring at him, arms crossed, blatant question in his eyes. "What is it?" he sighed.

If he'd expected some dancing around the topic, he would have been disappointed. Good thing he never expected much. "What is he to you?" said Riku bluntly. "When his player disappeared, why would he call you of all people? How did he know you were even here? And why would you go?"

"You mean Hiruma." Kid indulged in a pleasant but momentary fantasy of escaping the battery of questions, getting lost in the bustle of the audience currently streaming out of the stadium. But Riku had shown himself to be nothing but tenacious. Any escape would only be temporary.

"Are you still serious about joining us?" he said instead, and wasn't even surprised to receive a fervent, if troubled, nod. "Why don't you come by the place, then. You should see where the rest of us live, and work, and practice. And... there's something you should know about me."

***

"So he just... paid the debt off?" Riku demanded, putting his back into the work, shoving against the bale with such sudden force that a puff of hay ejected from the top. When it settled into his hair, it blended in perfectly. "All of it? But... how?" 

He had not only shown up at the estate shortly after the match, but, when he saw the residents hard at work, immediately joined in, without waiting to be asked. Someone knew how to make a good first impression. 

"What do you mean, how?" said Kid, who hadn't expected this to be the detail that Riku would latch on to. Maybe he was just touchy about the part where he'd lost all legal status and freedoms, but to him it had loomed large enough to block out all other considerations. "All right, that'll do for this one," he added, and went out for a new pallet, to start the next stack. Riku came with him.

Outside the hay barn, he took a deep, lung-expanding breath of air, relishing the scent of cut grasses, fresh hay, and the dry autumn chill that never failed to fill him with a sense of instinctual urgency. It was always a busy time for them—on top of all the other harvests, they had to ensure they had the supply to care for their livestock through the winter months, which meant cutting hay, tedding and baling it, and then moving it into the barn for storage, out of reach of moisture from the ground or sky, and the mold that came with it. But the urgency came, as always, with a certain thrill, because the on-coming winter, a quiet time for farm work, corresponded with the annual football tournament. 

"It's not like Hiruma is rich," Riku said, as he took the other end of the pallet, and the two of them carried it inside between them. "How could he just pay it off?"

Oh, still that—Kid tore his mind away from the tournament. "Just drop it here, next to the other one," he said, trying not to show his puzzlement. Honestly, he'd never thought to wonder. Hiruma just acted like he could do anything he chose, and he was so good at convincing people, that it was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. "You sure know a lot about him."

"I live with someone who makes it her business to know."

"Ah," Kid recalled an earlier comment. "That Mamori you were talking about? She's your roommate?"

"Yeah. But we're not together or anything!" Riku added, too hastily. "I mean, we're together in that we _live_ together, because I grew up with her. She's like my big sister, really! Anyway, that's not important!"

To mask his amusement, Kid pretended to inspect one of the nearby stacks of hay, pressing the back of his hand into it as if to test its give. Had he ever been that young? Taking pity, he said, "Why does she make it her business?"

Relieved, Riku picked up his hay fork and jabbed it into the next bale. "She just does," he said. As he strained to move it, he seemed to be searching for a better explanation, so Kid picked up his own fork and quietly followed suit. They had done small, 2-stringed bales this year, which weren't terribly heavy, but it had been a long day—he'd have to make sure Riku got a break soon. 

Finally, Riku said, "What are you going to ask for?"

"Ask for? Ah. You mean if we make it to... that."

Riku scoffed. "If 'that's' what you call the Christmas Bowl, then yeah. That's our goal, right? As a team?"

There was a challenge in his eyes, and Kid had the sudden insight that if he wanted to scare the youngster off—something he hadn't accomplished by ignoring him, by putting him to manual labor, or even by revealing his own status as a slave—he could easily do it by not meeting that challenge now. Riku would be better off on another team. Shinryuuji. Hashiratani. Seibu of last year. It should have been easy for Kid to mumble something deprecating, but to his surprise, he found that he couldn't. 

"Got a lot of passionate players who would be furious, if that weren't the case."

It wasn't much, but it seemed to be good enough for Riku, who settled in to the work. "Everyone who makes it to the Christmas Bowl gets one wish, a Christmas Miracle," he said.

Kid couldn't help but chuckle at that. Not many serious players called it that anymore—Riku was still young at heart.

"They can pick one other person in the tournament, and ask them to do whatever they want—within limits," Riku added, probably thinking of last year, when Shinryuuji's Agon had asked a player to "do everyone a favor" and please kill himself. The tournament organizers had never vetoed a request so fast, and they always denied a few every year. "If we win, I'm going to give my wish to Mamori. She has something to ask Hiruma."

"And what's that?"

"I'm not really sure. If I had to guess, I think she wants Hiruma to release all his slaves."

"Well." Kid let out a low whistle. "That would work out well for me, can't deny it, but I don't know that the organizers would go for it. Is she an abolitionist?"

"She definitely hates slavery, but... I think it's more than that. She's always going on about how Hiruma is too powerful, too abusive, that someone has to stop him." Here, Riku gave Kid a pointed look. "But that's just my guess. Anyway, what will you ask for?"

"I never thought about it."

"No way." Riku let the end of his hay fork fall to the ground, and leaned on the handle. The back of his shirt was soaked, and there was sweat running down his temples, but he still found the energy to gesture his incredulity. "After all these years? You guys took second place last year! Agon barely showed up to the match on time—one traffic jam, and you could've made it! And you've never even _thought_ about what you'd ask for? Or even who?" 

"I don't like to get ahead of myself. That never ends well."

Riku opened his mouth to reply, but Kid cut him off. "Ah, is that Tetsuma I hear?" Outside, Tetsuma's tractor was indeed heading towards them, but it was a ways out. Kid tried to look innocent while they waited for it to close in, and together they unhitched the next load of bales, before Tetsuma rode back out for more. The two of them resumed their work. It was silent for all of a minute before Riku said, "So, is that all?"

"Is what all?"

"You said there was something I should know before I joined, and you sounded pretty grim. Was this it? The slavery thing."

At least he'd left off the Christmas Miracle stuff. Kid dumped his next bale on top of the growing stack, and pulled the fork out smoothly, with a satisfying crunch. "What do you think would happen if we were to face Deimon in the tournament? Face Hiruma, I should say."

"You don't mean, order you to throw the game?" Riku's bale teetered on the end of his fork, and he quickly set it down. "He wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't? I have no idea. Couldn't?" Kid gave him a hard look. From the way Riku had described Mamori's rants about power, and abuse, he should know better than that. "That's what it means, to be owned by someone."

"He can't order me around," Riku declared. "I'm not his slave."

"You're one person."

"One person could make all the difference!"

"And I'm your captain. I call the plays, the positions. I say whether you even play at all."

The energy that had sustained Riku through hours of back-aching labor suddenly seemed to drain from him, as he dropped onto the nearest bale, and put his face in his arms, arms on his knees. "Would you bench me?" he said into his sleeves. "If he ordered you."

Kid let out a long, long sigh. "That's why I wanted you to know. Before you signed on with us." He stabbed the next bale, with perhaps too much force, and flung it onto the stack with a practiced motion, precise aim. 

"I still want to," came Riku's voice from behind him, still muffled. "It's not right."

"There's nothing not right about it." But when Kid turned around for more, Riku was standing again, a determined set to his face that made him look a decade older. Not a youngster after all.

"It's not right," Riku repeated. "You're the best quarterback in the whole league. Doing that to you is... is criminal. I still want to join Seibu. I want to fight for you. And I think Mamori will want to fight for you too."

"Mamori doesn't even know me," said Kid gently, but Riku was undeterred. 

"We'll go to the Christmas Bowl," he said. "We'll get that Miracle. And we'll set you free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my research, I found many ingenious ways to move bales of hay around without physically lifting them up yourself. Perhaps these idiots can't afford the machinery. Perhaps this is their training regimen. Perhaps this fic is not very realistic?? Please don't model your farm after Kid's.


	28. Protective gear

It was a long ride back to the house, and Juumonji found himself getting more and more pissed as it went on. Pissed at Hiruma, who made him promise not to do anything against Agon, and then didn't do a damn thing himself, until it was almost too late. At Sena, who just lay there, waiting for shit to happen to him, like every other broken slave Juumonji had ever had to watch, waiting to get broken even more. At Agon's careless brutality, and the big fat nothing he himself had done to stop it, promise or no promise. 

By the time they got back to the house, and Habashira's guy shut the engine, Juumonji found he was still vibrating all on his own, anger maybe, as he swung off the bike. In front of him, Sena didn't so much get off as he fell off, staggered on unsteady legs, and sank to his knees like it was the most natural thing in the world. At least he was still wearing knee pads. There was a big empty indent in the grass where the RV was usually parked, which meant Doburoku and the others still weren't back yet from the game. Juumonji had to do just about everything around here. 

As he got closer, he saw that Sena's eyes were dim and unfocused, like there was no one inside his head at all, and his body was just operating on its own. It was only when he scooped the guy up that he seemed to come alive a little, squirming with a desperation that made him almost hard to carry, before settling into a stiff, wary hunch. 

"It's just me," Juumonji said, trying to find the brusque, matter-of-fact tone that helped sometimes, when his friends had nightmares, but they were all pretending to ignore it. "Let's get you indoors." 

Juumonji hadn't been in the house much, but he found the back door ajar, and shoved it further open with his shoulder. From the end of the hall, he heard voices, probably Yukimitsu and Musashi chatting, or watching TV. Everyone else would still be at the stadium. 

"Which one's yours?" he asked, but Sena didn't respond. He seemed to be shaking a little, fine tremors that Juumonji couldn't see, only feel as he shifted Sena's weight in his arms to grab the nearest door. Was it shock? With new urgency, he entered to find a tidy, sparse bedroom, with nothing more than a couple books on the nightstand and dresser—football manuals and such—to suggest it was lived in. 

"Good enough," he said, and dumped Sena on the bed. "Let's get this gear off you." He began to tug at Sena's clothes, no different than he'd done hundreds of times for Toganou and Kuroki, but as he pulled off the jersey, Sena let out a small strangled whimper, like Juumonji had pressed on a bad bruise. "This has got to chafe to hell."

Juumonji had gotten a chance to shuck his own protective gear while he and Hiruma were waiting for the Habashira express to show. He couldn't imagine being stuck in all the pads and sweat for as long as Sena had been. But while Sena didn't exactly make a move to stop him, he didn't help either, lying limp and unresponsive. He didn't even seem to be breathing much, at least until Juumonji hesitated, and then he seemed to take a chance, opening his squeezed-shut eyes to gasp faintly, "Please." Juumonji felt his face pull into a frown, and Sena amended, "Please, _sir_." Only then did Juumonji notice that he hadn't heard a "sir" out of the kid for weeks. "I-I'm not resisting. Just please, did you... do you have master's permission?" 

"What are you talking about?" Juumonji's scowl deepened, as he began to unlace Sena's pants. "What do I need that asshole's permission for—"

And as he began to pull the pants from Sena's hips, to the sound of a choked-off sob, the gesture took on a new, horrible meaning. He froze again, thinking no, no, and Sena seemed encouraged by this, by the fact that he hadn't—what, torn off all his clothes and ravished him already?—but Sena still didn't move an inch from where he'd been left, not a finger, not a hair, just met Juumonji's eyes with a hopelessness that was goddamn heartbreaking.

"I-I know I failed him," Sena said. "I understand if this, this is all I'm good for, now. B-but please, could you ask him?"

"That's not—" Juumonji's voice sounded harsh even to himself, and Sena flinched. He let go in a hurry, found the jersey he'd pulled off Sena without even thinking, damn it, without thinking about _anything_ , and threw it on top of him, covering his torso. "I don't want that. And that's not all you're good for."

"But master..."

"Master nothing!" Juumonji snapped. "I know it's hard right now. I know it feels like he's your whole world. But you don't have to be so... so devoted. You can find little ways to rebel. You don't just have to—"

He could see the question in Sena's eyes, and he could also see Sena wouldn't ever ask. "I just know," he finished, backing all the way up, until he hit the wall. He wasn't used to trying to appear _less_ threatening, but instinct told him to back away, as far as he could. "Trust me, I just know."

Sena touched the jersey with tentative fingers, and then clutched it to himself. 

"Look, I'm not going to—whatever you think. You should take that stuff off. Get washed up. But don't think you just have to roll over for him. He needs you, you know? On the team. And the rest of us, we won't let him." 

His words echoed hollowly in his own head, reminding him of other futile conversations like this, long ago. That was probably why he didn't bother to look at Sena's face as he left, because he knew what he'd see there—or what he wouldn't, more like.

Still, Kuroki and Toganou had turned out all right, so that had to count for something. As he sat down in the practice yard, wishing fiercely for a cigarette, he thought he heard, back in the house, the shower start to run. 


	29. Comb and clipper

Sena woke with bruised and gritty eyes. There was a momentary panic before he realized he was alone, in pajamas, in the room he was starting to think of as his and Monta's. His muscles felt sore and tense, like they'd been clenched in his sleep, and he couldn't place what had woken him, not until he heard it again, and snapped to attention: the sound of his master's voice. 

"—real messed up." Juumonji was saying, from what sounded like the kitchen area. 

"I need a fucking shower first," replied his master. "He'll wait."

"What happened to you?" Musashi. "Pick a fight with the ref?"

"The other guy looks worse. Fuck! Don't touch that." 

Juumonji said something else, low and angry, and Hiruma only cackled back. Then the sound of footsteps—did they pause outside his door, or was it just the breath that suddenly stuck in Sena's chest, that made him imagine it? 

Then the sound of the shower, so Sena still had some time to prepare. He'd already tallied all his mistakes and failures, or at least the ones he could think of, and no matter how he added and re-added, they came to a truly heart-stopping sum. He'd been wrong about what was happening with Juumonji, but the things he'd said, about not obeying, didn't make any sense. The only way to survive was to obey. More importantly, why wouldn't he want to? Hiruma wasn't cruel. He got his way with threats and insults, but he did the same to everyone, not just his slaves. It had never once occurred to Sena to do anything less than strive, with his whole being, to understand what Hiruma wanted, and then do his utmost to deliver it. Even just hearing Juumonji's words, having them rattling around inside his head, felt dangerous and disobedient. 

When Hiruma finally arrived, it was with a towel hung around his neck, hair damp but already gelled up into its usual spikes, and a massive black eye that made Sena gape, before he remembered himself. Hiruma didn't carry himself like one who had been beaten, though, but with his usual confidence. He was looking at Sena with something almost like concern—possessiveness, Sena decided, the same as he'd seen before, and finally knew what to do. 

As soon as Hiruma kicked the door shut behind him, Sena scrambled off the bed to stand before his master, and began to undress. The idea of being exposed and defenseless was no less terrifying now, than when it had been Juumonji pulling off his uniform, but he reminded himself that his body wasn't his anyway, but belonged to the man in front of him. The clothes too, for that matter. If Hiruma wanted to see, he had every right to.

In the time it took to pull the loose shirt over his head, Hiruma's expression had gone from his casual grin to a strangely blank nothing. As Sena loosened his drawstring and dropped the pants, baring himself, Hiruma leaned back against the wall, right where Juumonji had stood earlier, gaze intent and questioning. "What's this?"

Sena's hands hitched awkwardly, in the process of pulling his pants from his ankles, and he stumbled slightly to catch his balance. "I thought you'd want to see," he said, suddenly uncertain. "Like last time."

A beat, and then Hiruma laughed, mouth not so much opening as hinging apart to show teeth, like a bear trap. "Yeah, show me. I'll make that fucking dreads pay for every last mark."

Fully naked now, Sena unclenched his hands and forced himself to breathe. He didn't look at his master, didn't watch where that gaze might go, only held perfectly still until Hiruma was right in front of him, as if his skin needed inspection from an inch away, as if the tapestry of his bruises was an artwork to be closely examined. Sena had seen for himself in the shower—the exact outline of the shoulder pads etched livid into his torso, the shape of several shoe-prints stepped across him, like he'd been left out on a sidewalk—but the bruises had darkened while he slept, and looked even more stark against his skin, which was pale now, rather than flush from the hot water.

"I'm sorry," Sena said hesitantly.

He prepared to list his crimes, but Hiruma just said, " _You're_ apologizing to _me_ , huh, shrimp?" and lifted a hand to trace a particularly colorful bruise on his stomach. 

Watching the hand as warily as he'd watch a snake, Sena suddenly noticed that, in addition to the black eye, Hiruma bore bloody, scraped knuckles, as if he'd been punching back. Sena knew exactly what that meant, but rather than tensing, he found himself almost... settling into himself, the blood thrumming purposefully through his veins as if he'd found a place, a use. If his master was in that kind of mood, at least he could serve for something. It would hurt, but by now he knew Hiruma had the self-control not to maim him, at least if he didn't intend to. At least if there was still some purpose left for him, beyond being a punching bag.

"Can you still... use me, master?" Sena said. If he was too damaged, or if his performance had been too poor, if Hiruma had already written him off...

"You think I fight with that fucking dreads for fun? If I couldn't use you, I would have left you to rot."

Sena nodded; he fervently believed it.

"But it is fun," Hiruma added with a snicker. "Come on, get your clothes back on."

"Thank you, master," Sena said, relief numbing his fingers, as he tried to pick up up his clothes from where they'd puddled softly on the floor. "For not giving up on me. Even after I... I, I mean I won't expect the same p-privileges as before, but I'll work hard to earn them back. Not that you ever need to give them back...!"

"Calm down, shrimp," said Hiruma, and patted him on the head. Just lightly, but a wave of nausea washed over him, a sudden sense memory of pain and helpless terror. Sena flinched away before he could catch himself, and it was only with great effort that he managed to force himself back, placing his head back under Hiruma's palm, within easy reach. 

Watching him with cold, calm eyes, Hiruma took advantage of the position to slowly, deliberately grab a fistful of his hair, and Sena felt himself instantly unravel. So much for serving a purpose. Hiruma didn't even pull, only held him in place, and Sena was already begging, "Please, master, please, I'm sorry, please don't—"

Hiruma let go, and Sena tried to collect himself, get his ragged breathing under control, in case it happened again. 

Instead, Hiruma scooped up Sena's clothes from the ground, and into Sena's chest. Sena's arms automatically closed around them, without comprehension. 

"You need a haircut, fucking shrimp." Hiruma got up with a crack of his joints, and headed for the door. "The fucking old man can do it."

But when he came back, it wasn't with Musashi, but with a comb and clipper, a newspaper, and a folding chair tucked under his arm. "Said he wasn't up to it." Hiruma cackled, cracking the chair open with a sharp flick. "Impotent old bastard."

At Hiruma's direction, Sena hastily finished dressing, and spread out the newspaper over the floor. This wasn't at all how he'd expected things to go, after messing up their first match, getting himself kidnapped, and submitting to his master's enemy. But before he knew it, he was sitting in the chair, staring wide-eyed out the window, as Hiruma took the slightly damp towel from his own shoulders, and draped it around Sena's. 

Then the clipper buzzed to life behind him. Without any preliminary, Hiruma passed it over his head, the guard gliding over his scalp, until he felt the weight of a entire swath of hair fall away in clumps. Sena briefly wondered how short it was set, so he could keep himself groomed to Hiruma's preferences. Maybe when things felt less tense and fragile, he'd ask.

"You got caught up in something that was none of your business," said Hiruma suddenly, to the back of his head. "Fucking hold still!"

"Sorry, master." Sena tried to undo his flinch, as Hiruma's hand snaked out to steady him by the chin. 

"That fucking dreads and us, we go way back. Me and Musashi and him. We were all going to try out for Shinyruuji together, you know that?"

"No, master."

"The best team around—even better with us on it. No slaves, only football-obsessed idiots. But that fucking dreads, he always had it out for the fatty." The clear anger in Hiruma's voice, combined with the sharp, whirring blade so close to his head, made Sena's heart race. But Hiruma's fingers on Sena's chin didn't clench in the slightest, and the pressure on the clipper didn't change, only continued to make those smooth, even passes. "He didn't think we'd leave too, me and the old man. Never stopped hounding us after that. Bought the old man's contract when his dad went and fucking kicked it. Took me years to wrestle it out of his tight-ass grip."

"He regrets it. Losing you two." It wasn't until Hiruma's hand stilled that Sena realized he'd spoken aloud. "N-no, I mean, I don't know what I'm saying, please—"

"You should have said that to his face," Hiruma chuckled. "I'd pay for pictures." He clicked a different guard onto the clipper, then started again on the top of Sena's head. Hair started to fall into his face, and Sena let his eyes drift shut. When the buzzing stopped, Hiruma stepped back and said, "What a fucking loser."

Sena's head felt lighter, and a little cold. The comb began to run along his scalp, and he almost relaxed into the sensation, as Hiruma brushed out loose hairs, passed the clipper briefly over a few stragglers, and brushed the shorn locks off Sena's shoulders, to crinkle the newspaper below.

"Can I...?" Sena tentatively lifted a hand, and Hiruma moved it for him, pushed it directly into his newly trimmed hair. It was shorter on the sides, maybe a few inches on top. As he ran his hands through it, he realized it was too short to grab now, not whole-handed, like Agon had done. 

"I'm sorry I was so weak," Sena whispered, not daring to turn around. "I'm sorry I just... let him... I couldn't fight him at all."

"You couldn't fight because you weren't in the right arena." Hiruma came around to the front of him, carefully trimmed a few strands on either side of his face. "When you meet him on the field, I promise you—you'll fucking slaughter him."


	30. Two meetings

As the days got colder and shorter, training also picked up. Hiruma had them running as a team now, everyone but Musashi, drawing stares as they practiced pass routes down the sidewalk, alternated sprinting and jogging, or just tried their best to stay out of range of their captain, who had taken to bringing a squirt gun—a neon-colored, pump-action monster that seemed loaded up with ice—for "motivation".

They ran together, but it wasn't easy for everyone to stay together, and Sena was one of the worst. After a fast start, he usually found himself falling farther and farther back, toward Yukimitsu, who lagged behind from the start, but never quit. If Sena was going to redeem himself after their practice match, he had to learn from the other man's determination.

More than that, he couldn't help but think it was his fault, that this new group training regimen was because Hiruma didn't trust him on his own anymore. Sena was determined not to make trouble for his master again, making sure not to drift too far from the group, carefully scanning his surroundings no matter how tired he got. That might have been why, when he first spotted a familiar gray Oujou sweatshirt, the first thing he noticed was how dangerous the man wearing it looked, moving forward with implacable certainty.

Even after Sena recognized the jogger, he tried not to make eye contact, just focus on his breathing instead. They were in the middle of practice, he didn't have permission to talk to an opposing team's player, and he wasn't about to ask, for something so trivial as just wanting to. Shin seemed to understand, and ran past without comment, to Sena's relief and disappointment. He risked glancing over his shoulder, to see Shin passing Hiruma, and then turning smoothly, so that they were jogging side by side.

"Hiruma." Shin didn't sound winded at all; he might as well have been sitting in the park. "May I speak with your runner?"

"What am I, his fucking dad?" Hiruma laughed, and blasted icy cold water in his direction. Shin swiped at the stream as if to block it, then looked at his wet sleeve with confusion. "Do what you want. But if you ask me for his hand, I'm turning you down."

Shin nodded seriously at this, and sped up to join Sena, who found himself straightening, trying to be more subtle, or at least less fish-like, as he gasped for breath. "You disappeared," Shin said. "In the last quarter."

"Oh... yes," Sena panted. He looked over his shoulder again, but Hiruma was yelling at Kurita now, and didn't seem to be paying them any attention.

"After I tackled you," Shin added. 

"Right," Sena said, and it took him longer than it should have, to make the connection. He blamed it on his burning lungs, his pounding chest. "Oh, no! I mean... it wasn't... That didn't take me out or... It was only... only a nosebleed." 

Shin looked away, maybe to watch where he was going, maybe because he was embarrassed to witness Sena's struggles. 

"We're on our way to... see Seibu play," Sena offered. It was terrifying to think that the fall tournament had started already, that their first official match was only a few days away. "You... too...?"

"No," said Shin. "We have a rotation for which team member will attend each match, and record it. Wakana, our manager, compiles the relevant footage for us to review later. It's more efficient for me to continue my training during this time."

"Oh..." Despite the fire in his chest, he suddenly felt cold. It wasn't enough to keep up with Shin—he needed to surpass the perfect linebacker, which meant he needed to be training more than him. If nothing else, it meant he couldn't get out of breath from a little jog like this.

"I'm not on the rotation," Shin added, and looked a little shifty. "It's unclear why."

Rather than attempt to gasp out a response, Sena nodded. He did feel stronger these days. Musashi, when he was awake, had started working on an extension to the house, since people were complaining about the close quarters, especially Juumonji and the brothers. The colder weather was making it harder to sleep outside, and the RV only had so much space. Kurita, who worked in construction for a living, was the biggest help, but the rest of them pitched in as well, carrying things, holding things, cutting and hammering where they were told. As the project went on, Musashi seemed to disappear less often, and Sena did feel like he was starting to build some muscle. Now if only his lungs would catch up with the program.

"Have you looked ahead to see where Deimon and Oujou will meet in the bracket?" 

"Please don't tell me," Sena wheezed. "Master doesn't... want me to know... Just wants me... to focus on... one match at a time."

Shin looked over Sena's head, at Hiruma. His master's word was law, that much was basic and obvious, but others on the team like Monta, or even Juumonji, had a habit of reacting with disgust when he talked like that. To his relief, Shin accepted the comment without seeming to find it particularly strange. 

"Very well. Just be aware that I'm training hard, so that you won't be able to surpass me again."

"Me too," Sena said. "I... Master said... you weren't... at your strongest... last time..."

Again, Shin looked over Sena's head, but this time there was something closed in his expression, and he seemed to grow a little more distant—literally, as his steps began to take him away from the group. "So he's told you, then."

"I just meant... I want to fight you... at your best... and at my best too."

Even as he turned to go, Shin's expression seemed to unthaw slightly. "It seems Oujou is not too far from Deimon's headquarters." Headquarters was a bit generous, when the extension didn't even have a roof yet, but Sena didn't have the breath to correct him. "Perhaps we'll meet like this again."

***

The stadium couldn't have looked more different from the one where they'd played. For one thing, it was flooded with people. Before they even saw the entrance, they hit the crowd, and began to scatter into it. Sena instinctively moved toward his master, and had almost reached his side, when a touch on his wrist made his already overworked heart leap right out of his chest.

"Sena?"

Whirling, Sena couldn't believe his eyes. "Riku?" For a moment, they were just two old friends bumping into each other, and he knew Riku's shocked grin was slowly mirroring onto his own face. 

Then he realized how much Riku had changed; he was older now, taller. This wasn't right. Riku was a relic from a lifetime ago, a different life entirely, when Sena had been someone else. Or even someone at all, rather than some _thing_. 

Dizzy suddenly, with fear and shame, he flinched away. Hiruma was coming their way with a scowl that made him tremble, the rest of the team not far behind, and Sena backed away from Riku like he'd been caught at something forbidden. "I-I'm sorry, master, I wasn't—"

Hiruma's hand on Sena's shoulder, stopping him mid-sentence, wasn't nearly as harsh as his expression. "Who's this? The fucking eyebrows got a fucking shrimp too?"

Now that Sena looked more closely, he saw that Riku was indeed in a Seibu jersey, though he didn't have the rest of his gear on yet. "You're playing for Kid? You're not..."

"Yeah, I joined Seibu." Somehow, Riku managed to elbow his way in front of Sena, to glare up into Hiruma's face. "Voluntarily."

"I'm on Deimon," said Sena, lamely, as he watched the tension between them grow. He couldn't help staring at Riku, an adult now, and he also couldn't stop taking nervous glances at Hiruma, waiting for the order to stop talking, to leave, or to get down right there in the crowd and accept his punishment. The end result had his gaze flickering endlessly between them, like a nervous tic. "I'm, uh, I run."

"No way." Riku's glare melted away as he turned toward Sena, with something like pride. "#21 was you? I watched your practice match. You've gotten way faster!" Turning his back on Hiruma, he pulled at Sena's opposite arm. Sena had the mental image being torn apart between the two of them, but Hiruma made no move to hold on. He didn't need to—he knew Sena would obey. "Listen, you remember Mamori, don't you? She's here too. You should come say hi." He gave Hiruma a challenging look. 

Hiruma just cocked his squirt gun against his neck. "Don't you have a game to get ready for?"

"There's plenty of time." Riku held up his arms, to show a plastic bag slung around each wrist. "I'm not even dressed yet. They sent me to get snacks. Come on, Sena."

"I-I'm sorry, Riku," Sena said. Of course he remembered Mamori, who'd been almost a mother to him, after his had passed away. She'd even fought for him, when his father went too, even though the end result had been just as inevitable as the grave. "Please tell her—"

A nudge in his back made him stop: Hiruma's knee. "Okay, let's go pay a fucking social call." His grin had gotten fixed and nasty—he didn't look pleased, and Sena hoped he wouldn't pay for it later. But if Hiruma allowed it, he did desperately want to see Mamori again, and he might not have another chance. 

When the rest of the team started to follow, Hiruma stopped to fire rapid blasts of water in their direction. "Not the rest of you idiots. Go! If you miss the start of the game, I'll fucking kill you all!"

"I didn't know you were Hiruma's," said Riku, shifting both bags to one hand so he could more easily pull Sena's wrist with his other. "Don't worry," he lowered his voice, "Mamori and I have a plan to get you free."

Sena jerked his arm back so fast, he almost fell backwards. "Wh-what are you saying?" Hiruma was still arguing with Monta, who seemed angry about getting soaked again, or about not getting to go meet Sena's old friends. Sena had let Riku drag him too far ahead, and now Riku was speaking treason to him. It was happening again, this was exactly why Hiruma didn't trust him on his own anymore. Sena had to get back. 

But as he turned, he found Riku impossibly in his way again, having dashed around him in an instant. "It's called the Christmas Miracle," he said earnestly. "Everybody who makes it to the Christmas Bowl can ask for one thing, even slaves—"

"Don't tell me you're trying to sell him on that plan of yours too?" came a familiar drawl. It was Kid and Tetsuma, both in full gear, minus helmets. At a nod from Kid, Tetsuma took the bags from Riku, though he didn't seem to have any further objective, and simply stood there once he had them, waiting for more orders. "Howdy again," Kid tipped his hat at Sena. Then he seemed to take a closer look. "You look... different. Hiruma been treating you well?"

Before Sena could say anything, Riku exploded. "What are you talking about, treating him well? Sena is a _slave_. Listen Sena—" 

Kid took off his hat and pushed it onto Riku's head, covering most of his face. While Riku squawked, Kid took the opportunity to squat down until he could look Sena in the eye. "I never did believe in getting someone's hopes up falsely," he said, and Sena had a vivid memory of Kid's hand on his back, gentle through the bandages, the first kind touch he could remember feeling in years. "Riku here, his heart's in the right place, and he ain't wrong: there is a tradition of tournament winners being given a, a wish, a favor. But a slave asking for freedom, that's not really done."

"You're only saying that because you're a slave-owner," snapped Riku, finally free of the hat. "You ever think your slaves would have liked to ask for freedom—"

With a suddenness that was startling for a man of his size, Tetsuma appeared between Riku and Kid, managing to loom down at Riku without shifting remotely from his usual non-expression.

"Tetsuma..." Kid sighed.

Tetsuma calmly plucked the hat from Riku's head, and turned to hand it to Kid. 

"Come on, Sena," said Riku sullenly. "Let's go find Mamori. She'll be with the rest of the team. She's our manager now."

A sharp cackle announced Hiruma's presence. "Don't mind me!" he said, and pumped his water gun loudly, when they turned to stare. "Lead on."


	31. Subtle circles

Sena recognized her before he could make out the details. Honestly, from this distance it could have been any pretty woman in a striped shirt, pushing down on a player's back with the flat of her palms, helping him get his stretch lower and deeper. But there was something about her posture, the way she leaned all the way in, without a hint of self-consciousness, that reminded him of how she had thrown herself into taking care of him in the old days too, without a single thought or reservation, time and time again. It was strange to remember that he had once been protected, safe, an actual person. It drew a lump to his throat, but not a painful one, exactly. The loss of her, of his old life, was far from fresh enough to hurt him anymore. It was just the way things were. 

Around the waving curtain of her hair—to him it looked no different than how she used to wear it, years ago, but he was no expert—he could see just a sliver of her profile, and the faint hint of a smile that warmed and comforted him, even from here, even directed at someone else. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but his voice dried up in his throat. He had wanted to see Mamori, but now he wasn't sure he wanted her to see him.

"Mamori!" Riku called for him. "You'll never guess who we found!"

Sena stopped short, suddenly nervous, but there came a sharp nudge from behind that sent him off balance, so that when Mamori looked up, it was to see him almost falling towards her.

"Sena?" she rose, shocked, half-stretched player forgotten, and then ran to close the distance between them, sweeping him into a deep, achingly familiar hug. "Sena, what are you doing here? I thought... After you were..."

It was overwhelming, all of it, being enveloped in the soft embrace, the concern in her voice, Mamori's familiar clean scent. At Sena's choked-back sob, she quickly released him. Wiped his cheek with her hand, though it came away dry. "Oh, Sena, are you all right? You look... your hair's different." She chuckled sadly. "I mean, everything's different, of course it is. Are you here with... someone?" Something seemed to occur to her, and made her look up. 

Kid, Tetsuma, and Riku were standing around them, but Hiruma had stopped several feet back. Seeing their gazes turn, his grin widened, and he flashed a series of hand gestures at Mamori, long fingers flicking so quickly they blurred.

At first, it looked like she was going to ignore it, but when he got to the end, her face flushed red. Almost unwillingly, she made some signs back, motions stiff and rigid with clear anger.

"What are you...?" Riku said, looking between them with surprise. "I didn't think you knew Hiruma. Personally."

"Well, that makes two of us," said Mamori tightly, planting herself in front of Sena as if it were still her job to protect him. "As it turns out, I never knew him in the slightest." 

"Come on," said Kid to Riku, the others. "It looks to be about time for us to go get ready."

Riku looked like he was going to argue, as did several of the Seibu team, including the guy still stretching hopefully on the ground. Tetsuma was already halfway to the locker room before Kid had finished speaking. 

"Getting distracted right before our first game?" Kid said, "That won't end well for us," and herded Riku along on his way.

As the others cleared out, Sena inched shamefully around Mamori, and went to his master. In another life, he would have hidden behind her and the security that she promised. That life wasn't available to him. She watched him go with the same fury that she had used on every bully that had ever picked on him, but he didn't know what she could do about it now.

"You found out Sena and I grew up together, didn't you, Hiruma?" There was a quiet rumble in her voice, like thunder. "You bought him just to get back at me."

"Of course I did," said Hiruma easily. As soon as Sena got close enough, Hiruma put a hand on his shoulder, and applied pressure. 

Even though he had a standing order not to, the gesture was unambiguous. Sena went straight to his knees without even thinking about it, and only afterwards looked up in confusion. "Master?" 

After a brief shoulder pat, Hiruma's long fingers walked up his neck, to cup the side of his face, where again, he pressed in. Sena couldn't remember Hiruma ever acting like this, but he had no more thought of resisting him than he'd question gravity. His heart hammering in his throat, he let himself be pushed until his entire body was leaned against his master's leg, cheek to thigh. Hiruma wore soft running pants; the warm muscle of his thigh was clenched and taut, mirroring Sena's own tension. What had he done wrong? Why was he being punished here, now? 

Then the fingers reached the top of his head, and began to stroke small, subtle circles into his scalp, still sweaty from the run. His hair still hadn't grown out much, and as the fingers pushed through the short strands, they reminded him of just one instance of many, all the kindness and undeserved mercy he'd been shown since the day Hiruma had brought him home. There was no indication that this was a punishment, and it wasn't for him to question anyway. Hiruma's fingernails were always filed to a wicked sharp point, but only the soft pads of his fingers dug in. Against all odds, Sena found himself relaxing, letting his whole body rest against the leg. Don't fight, he told himself. Just obey, the usual refrain that for some reason didn't bring with it the usual helpless dread. 

"Every time I think I've seen you at your lowest," Mamori's voice came, coldly, quietly, from behind. "You always find a way to surprise me."

"Don't want you going and thinking you know me in the slightest, am I right? Fucking manager." The harshness in Hiruma's voice made Sena flinch, until the fingers made those small, soothing motions again. It would be almost impossible to punish someone while petting them, Sena thought. 

"Sena?" Mamori sounded closer now, like she'd taken a few steps, and then hesitated. Her voice had gentled, as if she'd summoned a smile from somewhere, just for him. "I'll get you out of this," she said, "I promise."

Sena didn't want that promise. There was only one future for him, and he already owed Mamori too much for her to keep fighting the impossible fight against it.

"So that's why, isn't it?" Hiruma chuckled suddenly. "This fucking shrimp getting enslaved is the reason you suddenly went all anti-fucking-slavery? That's why you changed the terms on me?"

" _I_ changed on _you_?" snarled Mamori, any trace of gentleness gone. "You're the one who promised me, no slaves. You were going to join Shinryuuji. You were going to do this football thing right, the three of you. You're the one who changed!"

A long, horrible pause, and then Hiruma shrugged, a motion Sena could feel against his face. "No use arguing about ancient history now, right? Up, shrimp," he added. "We're leaving."

Sena climbed to his feet, looking straight ahead. He wished he had the courage to look at Mamori, or even say something reassuring to her, the way she'd always reassured him, but he was terrified to get in the middle of whatever was between them. It almost sounded like he was responsible for some of it, which didn't bode well for him.

"You're just going to drag him away now?" said Mamori, who had no such fears. "Back to your dungeon or something?"

"Something," Hiruma snorted. "If you want to protect him so fucking bad, why don't you follow? Keep an eye on him. We're still looking for a manager too, you know." But Sena knew Hiruma well enough that even he could tell it wasn't a serious attempt. Hiruma had put no effort into the offer, less like he was playing a hand, than simply throwing his cards onto the table. 

It wasn't like him to make a request he knew would be refused. Even less like him to wait so long in silence, before turning and walking away, gesturing Sena to follow.

When Mamori called after him, her voice had softened, as if she had read the same thing. "Hiruma, wait."

To Sena's surprise, Hiruma actually stopped, though he didn't turn.

"Why did you really come here? To let Sena be with the people who care about him, right? Why won't you let him stay with us? Just for the match."

"Last time I left him with the fucking eyebrows, he got kidnapped." 

Sena didn't remember Kid being involved on that horrible day, but he didn't argue. 

"We have a spare camera. He can take some footage for you, up close. That'll be useful, right?"

"Fucking has a spare of everything," Hiruma muttered, and tapped Sena on the chin. Sena looked up, startled, to find he was being subjected to one of those scrutinizing looks again. Before he could think about what expression he should convey, Hiruma was already pushing his chin back down. "Stay here then," he said. "Don't make trouble for the fucking manager."

When Hiruma resumed walking, Sena stayed put, strangely bereft. "Master," he called, but Hiruma didn't even stop this time. Sena felt a sudden urgency, to convey... what? His obedience, his absolute loyalty, anything. "I-I would never try to escape from you. I swear."

At least that made Hiruma turn around. He didn't look angry, at least as far as Sena could tell, in the split second before he was shot with the water gun, an icy blast right in the chest. 

Over the sounds of an outraged Mamori scolding him, Hiruma grinned and said, "Just you fucking try."


	32. Freezing point depression

Yukimitsu had never felt so grateful to collapse into his seat, though that was basically how he ended up most days, these days. He wasn't sure if he was even improving, but no one could say he hadn't put in the effort, or the hours. Folded nearly double over his knees, he listened with half an ear as the rest of the team bickered around him. Where did they even get the breath? His own lungs felt like they had collapsed, each gasp a fight against physics to unstick them.

By the time his vision stopped swimming, and he managed to sit up a little, wipe some of the sweat trickling down his temple, the stadium had filled to the brim. Scanning the field, he was surprised to find that the Seibu team was nowhere in sight. Only the fabled Mamori was at their bench, left arm wrapped protectively around a bundled up cocoon—on closer inspection with binoculars, it turned out to be Sena, wrapped in an over-size towel—while with her right, she calmly made notes on her clipboard.

That's right, Hiruma had blasted Sena with his water gun and disappeared, strange—

Someone dropped into the chair next to him, and Yukimitsu straightened instinctively. Speak of the devil. 

"The fucking manager," Hiruma was muttering to himself, as he laid his water gun across the bent line of his crossed-over leg. "And the fucking shrimp. Fucking grew up together. Can you fucking believe it." 

The contents sloshed, full and ominous, as Hiruma opened a latch—he must have just refilled it—and began to dump in some kind of powder. 

Wait.

Could it be—salt? 

Yukimitsu gaped, silently. Was Hiruma adding salt to the water to get it even colder without freezing? That was so utterly excessive and insane. No wonder it had felt like ice on the run over. 

After a terrifying, threat-filled first impression, Hiruma had basically never given Yukimitsu a second glance. All the nastiness that Yukimitsu had so briefly glimpsed, he had mostly assumed that poor Sena received the brunt of it, given how the slave flinched and shook and all but fell over himself to keep Hiruma happy. Back then, he would have been horrified to find himself alone with Hiruma, as he was now, without Sena as a buffer. 

But, since the whole crew had loaded up into Doburoku's RV and joined the rest of the team down the mountain, Yukimitsu had had plenty of chances to observe Hiruma, and found his opinion slowly changing. For one thing, Sena's obeisance seemed to be something Hiruma accepted, rather than demanded from him. For example, he'd never made a move to stop Sena from calling him 'master', but neither had he objected to Monta calling him a kidnapping asshole, or Komusubi calling him nothing at all—though in all fairness, it would have been hard to get anything out of Komusubi, who had never spoken aloud, except to Kurita, and even then they had only Kurita's word for it. 

Unlike those three, there was nothing binding Yukimitsu to Hiruma, legally. There was no contract, no chip, the same as Juumonji and his not-brothers. Once, changing after practice, he'd glimpsed the ugly, raised scars on the backs of Kuroki and Toganou's necks, and he hadn't known whom to fear more: the two of them, who had borne the horrifying, inexpert surgery, or Juumonji, who had surely been the one to perform it, with whatever tools he could find. It was a felony to alter or remove a slave's tracking chip, but Hiruma had to know, and did nothing about it. 

What it all added up to was that Yukimitsu had—well, maybe "nothing to fear" would have been stretching it, but at least his first impressions had been incorrect. Now, sitting next to Hiruma, waiting for the game to start, might be his chance to test that hypothesis. 

Chemistry experiments done with, Hiruma was closing up the gun, and tucking it under his seat. Without warning or comment, he grabbed the binoculars out of Yukimitsu's hand, and used them to peer down into the field himself, clearly focusing on the same pair Yukimitsu had been observing earlier. 

After a brief internal debate, curiosity won out, as was often the case for Yukimitsu—though not always wisely. "Why did you leave him down there?" he said, and managed to keep the nervousness out of his voice. Intellectually, he thought he had a handle on Hiruma's personality, but putting it to the test was a separate matter. 

"Why are you so fucking nosy, baldy?" came Hiruma's immediate response. This kind of language, too, Yukimitsu had observed enough times that he felt no sting in it. If anything, it was comfortingly similar enough to what he'd expected, that he didn't say anything in response, just waited.

Below, the Seibu team was cautiously emerging from the locker room, but Hiruma didn't change the angle of his gaze. Kid came over to speak with Mamori. The Sena bundle didn't move. 

"That's going to be one of our toughest opponents," he said finally. "If they have some attachment to the fucking shrimp, that's our in. You win at football if you can throw off the enemy."

Yukimitsu considered this. It sounded reasonable—Riku and Mamori both seemed to know Sena from... before. Involuntarily, Yukimitsu spared a thought for his mother, and then put it from his mind.

It sounded reasonable, but he felt equally sure that it was only the smallest corner of the intricate calculus buzzing in Hiruma's head. "And your other reasons?" he said.

Slowly, Hiruma lowered the binoculars, and turned. Yukimitsu met the stare, then dropped his gaze, only to find it fixated on the glint of Hiruma's teeth. The stare seemed safer. 

"Strange. That I never talked to you before." 

"Not since that first day," Yukimitsu smiled ruefully, unevenly. "With Kurita. When you threatened to... hurt me."

Predictably, Hiruma's grin widened. "Still scared about that, fucking baldy? Waiting for me to follow through?"

"I won't give you any reason to." 

Just as predictably, Hiruma lost interest, like a snake when its prey goes limp. His gaze lost some of its razor sharpness, and he gestured down into the field, where both teams were warming up, only minutes from the start of the match. Yukimitsu followed his pointed finger, to see Tetsuma surge across the sidelines, and open the grasp of his palms, just in time for a football to slide neatly within them, like a magic trick.

"You think you can follow a pass route like that? Never shaking, never straying. Appearing exactly where and when I want you?"

"Yes," said Yukimitsu, with more firmness than he felt.

"Prove it to me," Hiruma replied, raising the binoculars again. "Then you'll be playing before you know it."


	33. Recess

Parallel universes. That was a thing, wasn't it? 

Otherwise, Sena couldn't explain how he was here, wrapped up in Mamori's arms and a thick, striped towel, being rubbed dry with the same brusque efficiency she'd used when he was a kid. She was even humming quietly, in that same old tuneless way of hers, where she'd stumble around the melody long enough that she occasionally managed a snatch of it. 

It was soothing. It was terrifying. 

No one should be humming to him, not anymore. 

After all these years, it still felt so natural to be caught in her embrace, to surrender and sink into it, and that was what made it so dangerous. He tried to shift away, but she only tightened her hold, and it went against his every instinct to fight it, for both the child he'd been, and the slave he had to remind himself he was now. 

"Honestly! Soaking people on a freezing cold day like this," she grumbled, breaking off mid-hum. "What on earth was he thinking? Do you need another jacket, Sena? Oh! Why don't you have some of the food I brought?"

When she finally let go of him, it was like being dropped back into his real life again. He quickly shed the towel, though his clothes were still damp, and froze to his skin immediately. The discomfort seemed more fitting than a rub, a hug, a song. 

From her bag, Mamori proudly presented her findings: something in tupperware with a worn purple lid, a shiny apple, and a sandwich in clear ziploc, with its crusts cut off. It all looked so familiar—the sandwich, the smile that shone from her entire face—that it gave Sena some kind of whiplash, and he automatically reached for it, like the last however many years had been some kind of incredibly long, irrelevant dream. He could have sworn that she'd brought him this exact same lunch before, in the same tupperware even, back when his father had been grieving, and didn't know he had to pack his son a lunch for kindergarten.

At the time, it had been a clean break. From that life—school, recess with Mamori, sandwiches with no crusts—to the slave training facilities, in the span of an afternoon. Sena had never thought to be grateful for the abrupt transition. Now, faced with this double image, a surreal glimpse of the life he might have lived, the woman his childhood friend might have become, he found that his outstretched hand was shaking, violently, and quickly snatched it back.

"Go on," Mamori encouraged, gracious enough to pretend she hadn't noticed. "I swear you don't weigh any more than you did the last time I saw you—and you're an adult now!"

"I can't." He stared down at his hand to avoid looking at her, studying the scars that marked him as no longer the Sena that she'd known. "I... don't have permission." In particular, three parallel white lines, cut across the ridge of his knuckles, drew his attention. It would have been one of his earliest punishments—canings to the knuckles or palm were common, during training—though he could no longer remember what he'd done wrong. It hadn't been easy for him to follow all the rules, back then. He'd learned, in countless marks littered across his body, and if he forgot his lessons, they would only be reapplied. That was the only school that was relevant. 

"You need Hiruma's permission to eat?" Mamori's voice had gone cold and angry, and Sena had to remind himself to steadily inhale.

It wasn't... exactly true. It was possible Hiruma wouldn't even mind. But if there was a time that he needed to be on his best behavior, it was now. If he let himself pretend, even for a minute, would he ever be able to stop? 

And just like that, he finally realized why his master had left him here, with these people from his past life—to show him he had no place with these people anymore, that his past life was gone. The only place and life remaining to him was as a slave. It wasn't like he'd thought anything different, but if Hiruma wanted him to prove he knew this lesson, then he wouldn't fail.

Oddly, now that he knew what he was here for, a calm settled over him. His hand had stopped its shaking, and his breathing had evened out. 

"Don't make him, Mamori."

Sena was so calm, he didn't even jump at the unexpected voice. He'd been so focused that he hadn't noticed Kid come out from the locker room, the whole team trooping out from behind him, looking conspicuously innocent, as if they hadn't been eavesdropping. 

"If he has his orders, I don't reckon interfering with them is going to do him any favors." Kid had finally swapped his hat for his helmet, and the smooth white dome of it made him look drawn in and intent. "It's just going to get him in more trouble when you give him back."

Mamori gave him a stubborn, familiar look. As a girl, it had been a pout on her face. Now it was a granite-chiseled stare that made Kid groan. "You _are_ planning to give him back," he asked.

Rather than saying anything, Mamori pulled the towel over Sena again, and rested her face against the top of his head. He made sure to hold himself still this time, rather than give in to the comfort. At least she'd put down the food. 

"I don't want to leave my master," he said. Even though it made Mamori flinch against him, he couldn't think how else to put it. "Please don't try to... keep me from him?"

"Oh, Sena." She shook her head into his scalp. "I understand. When someone has that kind of power over you, it's natural you'll start to sympathize. There's nothing wrong with you, okay? We won't talk about it anymore. Just... hang in there." 

"Is this going to be a problem?" Kid said, almost gently.

Mamori sat up. Swiped her eyes with one arm, and picked up her clipboard, all without letting go of Sena. "Not a problem."

"Riku?" Kid turned. "Is this going to be a problem?"

From where he was standing with the rest of the team, Riku gave a guilty start, like he'd been caught out. Giving up on pretending to focus on his warm up, he ran over, helmet in hand. 

"If we want to free Sena, we can't lose this game. It's not going to be a problem." He flashed Sena a wide smile. "Yeah, I heard what you said. Doesn't matter, we're saving you whether you like it or not."

"Riku, you're making Sena uncomfortable," said Mamori primly, as if she hadn't just been speaking the same heresy.

"Both of you," Kid sighed, "don't do anything rash. Let's just focus on football, not larceny, today. Can we do that?"

"Aye aye," Riku gave a flippant salute. "Watch me out there, Sena. You might just learn something." And he ran off with a wink.

The Riku in Sena's memory was still a kid, and it was hard to reconcile that with the professional figure he cut in his uniform, pads, the helmet he pulled on mid-stride. Sena remembered being cut off outside the stadium, when Riku easily dashed around him to block his way. If his master wanted to win the whole tournament, then it wasn't just Shin he had to outrun. Sena had to be faster than Riku too. He had to be faster than everyone. 

"Um, Mamori? You said something about... an extra camera?"

"Oh... right!" she looked surprised. "I just said that to get Hiruma to leave you here. You don't really have to. I can just give you my footage."

"Please," said Sena.

Mamori gave him a measuring look. "I'll give it to you... for something in exchange."

With that, Sena felt his breath catch in his throat. Maybe it would be easier this way, he thought. If Mamori treated him like the slave he was, there would be no temptation. He braced himself for a demand he couldn't refuse.

She pulled out the camera, and put the sandwich bag on top of it, handed them over together. "If you want the camera, you have to eat this."

Sena blinked. 

"Yes, yes, permission. But Hiruma did say not to make trouble for me."

To her credit, Mamori looked a little guilty as she said it, but it was true. Hiruma had said that. Hesitantly, Sena held out his hand. Mamori set the sandwich and camera in it, then turned it over, to show the knuckles he'd been studying earlier. She traced the scars sadly, one, two, three, before she let him go.

The sandwich was peanut butter and honey. His teeth sank in like he was biting into a cloud, and a single taste took him straight back to his childhood, exactly where he had been trying not to go. Food in his master's house was plentiful, but it was hearty and protein-rich, rarely soft and sweet like this. Mamori had definitely made him this exact lunch before, and he couldn't remember having it since. 

"Is he hurting you?" said Mamori, while he ate. "I know I said we'd stop talking about it, but if he is—"

Sena shook his head fervently. "No! He isn't... he isn't like my previous owners."

"Because he's so nice? A sweet little angel?" Mamori seemed to be struggling to keep her voice low and steady. "I saw what he made you do out there. In front of everyone."

"Of course not, he's terrifying," Sena said, and the earnestness must have shown on his face, because Mamori allowed him half a smile. "But... he doesn't ever punish me for no reason. For breaking rules I don't know." He was more sure than ever that the kneeling Mamori was so furious about hadn't been a punishment. He didn't know what it was, but that didn't matter. "He explains what he wants from me. Even when I mess up, he doesn't... He's given me so many second chances, Mamori."

"That's just basic decency, Sena," she sighed. "If that."

"Then, he's decent, okay?" Sena couldn't remember talking like this either, not to a free person. Maybe not since the last time he'd seen her. "Please don't... do anything."

Without his noticing it, the sandwich had disappeared. Mamori took the empty wrapper from him. Adjusted the towel around his shoulders, tucked it around his neck. Put her arm around him again, and pulled him in close. He'd been perfectly pliant kneeling for his master, leaning against his leg, but now, against Mamori's soft warmth, he was wooden as a plank.

With her free hand, Mamori pulled the clipboard onto her lap, and began to write in it. As she did, she said casually, "Is there a rule about not letting me hug you?"

"N-no." Sena fiddled with the camera.

"Then you can't get in trouble for it, can you?" 

"What?" His finger jerked, snapping a picture of his knee.

"That's why he's sooo different from your previous owners," she said sweetly. "So I hear."

Sena opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with, "Oh, it's starting!" She began flipping through her pages now, until she got to an incomprehensible diagram, which she began to mark up.

She had always been impossible to argue with. 

Inch by slow inch, Sena let himself settle against her. As long as he didn't get too comfortable, and fall asleep. As long as he still captured the footage. Maybe this was okay. 


	34. What you were

Sure, daylight was a distant memory, and the others had cleared out ages ago—leaving Sena alone with his worries, in the layering dark of the practice yard—but he hadn't realized just how late it was getting until a light came on behind him, illuminating the lawn, the shed, the fence, and snapping his own shadow long into the grass. The back door scraped open, and from it Hiruma growled, "What the fuck are you still doing out here?" 

Sena had been at it so long he'd almost forgotten other people were a thing, or light, or voices sharp with anger. In a panic, he turned and dropped down in the same awkward motion, kneeling between the rungs of the ladder he'd been drilling on. The grass was starting to dew, and crunched damp and cold under him as he bent his head, to huff foggy breaths into his chest. He still wasn't sure if kneeling was allowed again, but ever since the match that day, he was desperate to prove he hadn't picked up any bad habits, rebellious thoughts, from Mamori and Riku, and this was the best way he knew to show his submission. 

"You know it's three in the fucking morning?" Part of Hiruma's mutter was muffled; Sena couldn't see it with his head bowed, but he could vividly picture Hiruma running his hand tiredly over his entire face as he spoke. Sena had gotten it wrong again.

"Sorry, master," he said meekly. "I'll come inside." 

Now that he'd stopped moving around, and the sweat was starting to chill on his skin, he realized how cold it had gotten out. Another owner might have slammed the door on him and left him out here to freeze, but by this point Sena didn't expect it from Hiruma. Was he getting complacent? 

Indeed, Hiruma only moved out of the doorway and gave a sarcastic, "You think?" For some reason it only made Sena feel worse, to disappoint and then not even give his master the pleasure of punishing him for it. Maybe after the tournament was all done with.

He only managed to rise a couple inches before he found himself sinking right back down. There was a shivery weakness to his limbs that made him realize he'd been at this even longer than he'd thought. About to stammer out his apologies, he lifted his head to find that Hiruma was already right there in front of him, sliding an arm under his to help him up and forward. The man's chest felt like a furnace through his thin shirt, each arm a hot brand where it fell across him, one wrapped around his back, the other laid along his own.

"You trying to freeze your ass off out there?" They crossed into the warmth of the house, and the arm on his back disappeared briefly to shut the door behind them; Sena had to brace himself to stay upright, squinting with unprepared eyes against the sudden glaring light. "Even the fucking baldy already called it."

Sena was pretty sure Yukimitsu hadn't slept at all the past few nights, and had simply exhausted his physical limits, but that wouldn't have escaped Hiruma's notice. "I'm sorry, master," he said again.

A few more steps, and Hiruma kicked out a chair at the kitchen table to drop him into. As he walked away, Sena noticed that his hair was mussed out of its usual spikes, and he was dressed in dark sweatpants, and an old shirt with a faded logo. Of course he'd been in bed, it was the middle of the night. Had Sena woken him?

The kettle clicked on, and Hiruma snapped a banana from the bunch on the counter to set down in front of Sena, pushing aside the rest of the stuff on the table—his laptop, an empty glass, a pad of graph paper—to give himself some space as he did so.

"You want to tell me what that was about?" Hiruma leaned against the table with a hand and the side of his hip. Somehow, they always seemed to end up here. Even with the entire team sharing tight quarters, there was something about being awake during these dark, late hours, that should hardly even exist, that made the concept of other people feel distant, absent. 

Sena peeked up at his master's face, and found his gaze catch. The black eye that Hiruma brought back from Shinyruuji had magically faded within a day or two, but tonight it was dark and bruised again, like time realized it had skipped a step, and turned back around with a vengeance. Sena stared at it, uncomprehending, for a stupidly long time—he must have been pretty out of it—before he remembered he'd been asked a question, and struggled for a response.

"I saw how good Kid's team was today," he settled on.

"What, you're some kind of expert already?" 

"I just, I don't know if I can beat Riku." Sena's heartbeat, which was just starting to slow from the drills, gave a sharp, sudden kick. "I don't know if I can beat Shin, or A-Agon. I know I have to! I'll practice, I swear."

Hiruma scoffed and got off the table. He didn't look nearly as angry as he should, and Sena didn't really think he'd get hit, but he still couldn't hold back a flinch at the movement. Surely he deserved it? But Hiruma only went back to the kitchen counter, where he picked up the kettle just as it started to steam.

"Master, I can... make your drink..." Sena started, but Hiruma was already back with two mugs, one of which he clunked down in front of Sena, next to the banana. His assignments were starting to pile up.

"You think your fucking friend is so great, did you watch the passes at all?" Hiruma scooted back onto the table edge, rather than taking a chair. This close, his knee brushed Sena's arm as he gestured with his cup. "That fucking eyebrows has gotten even faster. 'We didn't practice much this year,' my ass. I'm going to tell you this straight, because it's three in the fucking morning and none of us should be up right now." When he leaned in from that position, Sena could smell the coffee on his breath. "He's a better quarterback than me, period."

Seeing Sena's stricken expression, Hiruma smirked. "Don't be fooled by that washed-up, no-ambition act of his. Point is, football isn't that kind of game. Lucky for you and me, we're not going to line up and fucking duel it out, one-on-one. We're going to get in their heads and throw them off, we're going to rig every fight to our favor. Hell, if I heard the fucking eyebrows was running himself ragged the night before our match, I'd be throwing a fucking party."

The meaning was obvious. By training like an idiot, Sena was hurting their chances more than helping. He looked down, shame-faced, at the table; under his gaze, Hiruma nudged the mug closer with his leg. At least that was a command he couldn't get wrong. Sena wrapped his hands around it, reveling in the heat, and when he drank, it was the sweet, rich taste of chocolate, not coffee, that shocked him out of his thoughts. 

"If we had to fight Seibu now, we'd lose, no question. But Yuuhi Guts isn't that level of a team. You know I don't fight lost causes."

"Yes, master." Sena took another sip. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter if we're better. It only matters if we win."

"Yes, master." The hot beverage pooling in his gut, the warmth of the room, even the sound of Hiruma's voice—as abrasive as it was comforting in its normalcy—were starting to relax him, against all odds. A sudden sleepiness was creeping up on him, and with it, hunger. Eyeing the banana, he had a vague thought to confess about the sandwich that he'd eaten earlier, and then the apple, and then the couple bites of potato salad—Mamori was very convincing. Then he remembered that he'd already given his full report, as they were leaving the stadium. Hiruma had only rolled his eyes and pointed out that he could see everything from the stands. It should have made Sena nervous to know he'd been watched the whole time, but it was actually a comforting thought, that his master had been monitoring him, like he wouldn't have been allowed to mess up too badly. 

Even when he'd confessed Mamori's plans to steal Sena away, to steal Hiruma's _property_ , the worst he'd gotten was another spray from the water gun and shouted-out pass route to practice down the sidewalk. None of it made any sense.

"If Seibu wins," Sena blurted, before he remembered why he'd dropped the topic earlier. He couldn't afford to let Hiruma to think he _wanted_ to be stolen—that was just as treasonous as trying to run away himself. He cut himself off, but of course, Hiruma saw right through him.

"If they're stupid enough to ask for something impossible like that, that's not my problem." He gave a sharp burst of laughter. "Requesting to free a slave would never get through the fucking association. It'll be vetoed before they can finish asking."

"Mamori said... She said forcing someone isn't the only way to get them to do something." 

"What, the fucking manager thinks I'm going to get pressured into it? Just because she's asking me in front of a crowd?"

Sena sensed that this was dangerous territory, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from pressing, "Would you?"

"Not a chance." Hiruma took a big slurp of coffee. "They'll never get to ask—the fucking Christmas Bowl is ours."

That wasn't exactly an answer, but before Sena could dig himself any deeper, a change in the background noise threw him off. He hadn't even registered the sound of the shower running—he'd almost thought it was part of the exhaustion buzzing in his head—until it abruptly shut off, and rang loud in its absence. He looked up in surprise, wondering who else would be up at this hour, only to see Musashi coming down the hall, toweling his hair dry. "Is my clock wrong?" he said. "Or is it—"

"Three-fucking-AM," Hiruma said, "We got it."

"More like four now." Musashi covered a yawn, as he came to the table to peer at them, as if they were some exotic species of animal he'd discovered in his home.

"Maybe if some fucking old geezers didn't have such loud nightmares." 

"Maybe if you found somewhere else to sleep." Musashi managed to not only ruffle Hiruma's hair as he walked by, but also to dodge Hiruma's angry swat, like it was second nature. On his next bite of banana, Sena bit his own lip in shock.

"Were you waiting for the shower, kid?" Musashi came back with a bag of marshmallows, a few of which he plopped into Sena's hot chocolate. "It's all yours."

"You're putting even more fucking sugar in that disgusting shit?" Hiruma demanded, and snatched his cup away as Musashi tried to put some in it too. At a second attempt, Hiruma hopped off the table, and grabbed his laptop, pointing it at Sena. 

"From now until our Yuuhi game, I want you resting," he said, and turned to walk away. "No training tomorrow. No running. Don't even jump out of bed, just slide out, like a grandpa. And don't learn bad habits from this fucking old man, either."

"Says the workaholic who's caffeinating already, instead of going back to bed?" Musashi called after him, and dropped into the seat across from Sena, when he didn't get a response. "You worried about the match?"

"A little," said Sena, in a tiny voice.

"You know it's just a game, right?"

The cup nearly slipped out of Sena's grasp. Something this important to his master wasn't "just" anything to him. But then, it wasn't really his place to argue with Musashi. "I guess so, sir."

"Back to the 'sir', huh?" said Musashi ruefully. He spread his huge hands on table, a disarming gesture. "I heard you saw some people you knew today. From... before." 

But Sena didn't respond; he had fixated on a series of familiar white scars, straight and even, cut across Musashi's thick knuckles. 

"That's tough. They think they're making it easier on you, but when you're still... not your own..." Musashi's hands started to clench, but he forced them open again, flat. "Sometimes you cling to it even harder, you know? The... new you. The lesser you. You can't be what you were, you can't even think it, not for a minute. It's tough," Musashi repeated, and trailed off. There was a distant look in his eyes, and Sena finally made the connection, that Hiruma and Kurita were for Musashi what Mamori and Riku were for him. 

Friends. 

Relics. 

Completely out of place in his new reality. 

But Musashi was here now—not unscarred, but still here, smiling sometimes, head held straight, annoying Hiruma with marshmallows. "You're... so strong," Sena found himself saying. He had never thought about how hard it would have to be, to act so confident and free during the day, when he was still a slave in every nightmare. 

"Just lucky," Musashi shrugged. "To have help," like that was all it would take, to go from Sena to him. 

Sena couldn't believe that. 

Musashi might have been freed, or not, Sena didn't know the details of his contract, and didn't want to. But Sena didn't have that option. He was Hiruma's property, now and for as long as Hiruma still had a use for him. He couldn't let himself think differently, and continue to function.

"I'm going to go," he said, "to bed," and pushed back hastily from the table. "Master said I should rest." 

Musashi looked up, startled, but kept his hands on the table, and even leaned back in his seat a tad. Though the larger man was so careful to make himself look less threatening, Sena still felt a little like he was fleeing. He forced himself to slow his steps as he headed for the shower. Otherwise, it was almost running, and his master had said not to run.


	35. Guts

They weren't going to be allowed to play.

Atsumi wasn't sure when this became obvious to him. A few weeks ago, Haibara had broken clean through their last tackling dummy, and there was no sign of a replacement, but that was nothing new—by that point, all their equipment was held together with duct tape and hope. They'd gone to the spring tournament with battered helmets and missing spikes on their cleats, having trained on a few sewn up punching bags between the ten of them, janky barbells with mismatched plates. Lack of equipment was no sign that anything was wrong, seriously wrong.

Maybe it was when they saw Coach during practice, out on the edge of the field. He was more dressed up than usual, talking to a few other men that towered over him, smoking, laughing. 

Everyone on the team was trying their hardest, as always, and Atsumi was immensely proud of their efforts, at how far they'd come despite their lack of resources, funds, or mentorship of any sort. Yuuhi had all these amazing sports teams, for baseball, volleyball, track... but sometimes a purchase didn't pan out as expected, or didn't play well with the rest of the team. That's when they got shunted over to the Yuuhi Guts, to play football. Atsumi always took them in with wide-open arms, working with them personally, seeking their individual strengths, and sharing his passion for the game. True, they'd been crushed at the spring tournament, but after a long, grueling summer, they were finally starting to look like a real team, and he was sure they'd be able to prove it in the fall. That was why they were training so hard that day, as they did all days. You could order a bunch of slaves to practice, but to live, breathe, sweat the game, that had to come from within. 

For all that, Coach didn't spare them a glance, nor did he call them over to present themselves, or to check on their progress. After the strangers left, Atsumi thought Coach might come address them, maybe discuss strategy for the upcoming tournament. Instead, he just finished up his cigarette, staring off into nothing in particular, and then ground it under his heel as he left. 

That was probably the first sign. 

"Wasn't that the owner of the Bando Spiders?" said Haibara. "The one on the far left."

Atsumi realized he was staring after their coach's retreating back, and shook himself out of it. "Was it?" He adjusted his grip on the padded target, and braced himself.

"You asked him about the tackling dummy, right?" Haibara dove into it, shoulder first. "Are we getting another one?" 

"No matter," grunted Atsumi, who had put in the request, but had no idea if it had been received. "We'll make it work. We always do."

***

On the day of the match, there was a bus, to Atsumi's slight relief—but when they got on, it was only to find the seats already overflowing with athletes picked from the other Yuuhi teams. If any of them hadn't been aware by then, this made it painfully obvious: these players were going on the field today, not them. The Guts had put their hearts and souls into training, but Coach thought a bunch of complete beginners would perform better—stars in their own sports, every one of them, but Atsumi doubted if any of them had ever even held a football in their lives. For his team, it was a slap in all their faces.

Haibara seemed to agree. As the bus started moving, he clenched his fists, and made a move down the aisle, toward the closest seat—Tanaka, from the soccer team, who was wiry with muscle, but looked thin and wary against Haibara's new bulk. The visual contrast drove it home for Atsumi how much Haibara had grown over the summer, how hard he must have worked—and for what? Before he could do something catastrophically stupid, Atsumi put a restraining hand on his shoulder. At least Tanaka had the grace to scoot over, wordlessly offering his seat.

At the stadium, they warmed up dutifully, despite the clear fact that they would never play. It was hard to watch the grim faces of his teammates, set not with resolve and purpose, as they should have been, but with the emptiness of that purpose suddenly snatched from them.

Atsumi tore himself away with the excuse of filling the water bottles, and reached the water fountain at the same time as one of Deimon's players, a slight figure with skinny arms and huge, anxious eyes. 

Like theirs, the Deimon Devilbats was a small team with not enough players; the buzz was that they'd picked up a runner and a receiver over the summer, and they were better than they'd been in the spring. If he remembered correctly, the #21 jersey meant this was the runner. He definitely seemed flighty, like he was apt to take off at any moment. When he saw Atsumi staring, he put a nervous hand to his throat, like he was feeling for a collar he no longer wore.

What could he be so nervous about? Deimon didn't have other teams to cannibalize, an abundance of skilled athletes to replace its own. There was no doubt he'd get to play. 

Maybe Atsumi was standing too close, waiting for the fountain. Something about looming over this gangly runner made him feel positively massive. The truth was that his team didn't have any idea what they were doing, not without a real coach, who could help them improve—but they had weights. Anyone could build muscle. Bulking up didn't take skill, just dedication, and that much they had in spades.

In case that was the reason, he backed up a step, and held up all the empty water bottles he had to fill. "After you."

#21 gave a timid smile, took a quick drink of water, and dashed away. He was fast, at that. Atsumi tracked the run automatically, and his gaze fell on Hiruma sitting at the far end of the field, watching with narrowed eyes.

When Atsumi got back to the others, and handed out the filled bottles, his team was barely energetic enough to take them. "Haibara, let's look up Deimon's new players."

Haibara gave him a flat look, which he should have expected. _Why bother?_ it clearly said.

"I know," said Atsumi gently, "I know. Let's do our best, regardless."

With a sigh, Haibara pulled out their tablet, and punched in the info. The receiver had only been registered that year, after the spring tournament, and didn't have any match history to speak of. The runner had been a slave for over a decade, but didn't have any stats either.

"Hey," said Minami, coming in out of nowhere, "it says the designation is 'Domestic'. He's not even an athlete?"

Akaboshi looked over from the bench. "What does that mean, like a bed warmer?" 

Atsumi had never been good with these fiddly devices, but when he peered in closer, he had to concede that it did say that. "Don't forget," he cautioned, "mind games are Deimon's specialty." He wouldn't put it past Hiruma to change his slave's designation just to throw people off. For all he knew, the timid act at the fountain could even have been put on. The lack of match history was definitely strange, though. 

"Go back to the other one," said Fukase. Apparently the whole team, the real team, was taking an interest now. At least it had gotten them out of their funk. "The receiver. He had the right designation, right?"

Haibara went to search again, but thumbed one of the suggestions instead, and managed to get his own profile. 

"Ugh, let me do it—" Fukase reached for the tablet.

"Wait." Atsumi took it from them and stared. "The designation." He was sure there was some terrible implication here, but it just wouldn't process. As if hoping they could tell him, he turned the screen to the others. 

Haibara's designation was 'Labor'.

"That can't be right," said Haibara. 

"Calm down." Atsumi put in Fukase's ID, and got the same result. Minami. Akaboshi. The entire team, the same.

"Why would Coach change our designation?" said Fukase nervously.

"To sell us," Haibara growled. "He's giving up on the team entirely. He doesn't want to be in football anymore, not when he's doing so much better in soccer." His voice raised at that, pitched to carry over to Tanaka from the soccer team, who actually gave a guilty start. "He's going to sell us, as unskilled labor."

"But why not—" The silence of the words Fukase just barely swallowed seemed to boom louder than they would have, actually spoken. The other Yuuhi teams wouldn't want them; several of them were rejects from those very teams. "Why not sell us as football players, then? We're trained for it. Surely we'd be more valuable that way?"

"He tried," said Haibara flatly.

Atsumi met his gaze, and finally understood. "The owner of the Bando Spiders," he said, and Haibara nodded.

"What?" 

"He came to watch us practice once. Others, too," Atsumi explained. "They must have been with other teams."

"But nobody wanted us," Haibara said. "Why would they? We didn't win a single game in the spring. We couldn't even score one touchdown against the Cupids, and they're terrible. Why would anyone buy us?"

But Atsumi had finally gotten through the list, and come to his own name last of all. "Athlete," said the screen, accusingly. Maybe Coach hadn't gotten around to changing his yet, he told himself. He quickly shut it off before anyone else could see. 

"Everyone's done very well getting this far." He found an encouraging tone for his team. "You've made a lot of adjustments in the last few years. No matter what happens from here, we'll continue to adjust."

As the stars of other Yuuhi teams assembled on the fields, Atsumi put the traitorous tablet away, and went to sit on the bench with his. "There's no sense worrying about the rest."

***

The Deimon team was better than the reports made them out to be. It was hard to imagine it was really the difference from getting just two new players. #80 seemed to view every pass as a personal challenge, and lunged like his pride was at stake for each one. #21, who'd shrunk away from Atsumi at the water fountain, was aggressive on the field, darting between Yuuhi's top athletes without any seeming care for his own safety. They couldn't catch him.

About 40 points in, all for Deimon, Coach called it. "Atsumi, you and your guys are up," he said, and ruined it by muttering just a little too loudly, "No sense risking any injuries." 

It was clear whose injuries he thought were important. 

Even if the point gap hadn't been damning, the comment made it clear: he considered the game over.

"We could just refuse to play," said Haibara.

"Don't put a black mark on your record." Atsumi handed him his helmet. He didn't mention that none of them could afford that, with the presumable upcoming sale. He didn't need to. "This is what we've all trained so hard for. At least we'll get a chance to put our efforts to use. Let's not waste it."

Haibara took the helmet, but didn't put it on.

"We've been watching Deimon play this whole time. We know their strategies. That last charge—Haibara, you could have blocked it, right?"

Reluctantly, Haibara nodded.

"We'll show them," agreed Minami. 

"To the Christmas Bowl!" Akaboshi.

Atsumi smiled. They really were a great team. 

"The best I could have asked for," he told them, and slipped in his mouth guard.

***

After the match, he went to empty the bottles, and found #21 at the fountain again. 

"Your team was great," he said, when Atsumi again stopped several feet out. "Your real team, I mean." 

Worn out, he seemed much more relaxed, posture loose with relief. No longer hunched over, he looked about a foot taller, and the shine on his face wasn't just sweat. 

There was still a residual nervousness about him; after a second, Atsumi placed it as guilt, and gave a shocked chuckle. Maybe this really was a domestic slave, playing at football for the first time, that had beaten them. So that's what it had come to.

"The better Deimon does from here on, the better you'll make us look." Atsumi told him, trying to find comfort in the fact that his team, his real team, had scored a touchdown, where all the Yuuhi stars combined had failed. It was better than the spring. Maybe if Deimon made it to nationals or something, the Guts could ride on their coattails a bit, as a team that scored against them. Maybe some of them might still have a future in football.

"Now that you've beaten us, you'll have to carry our dreams with you."

"All the way to the Christmas Bowl," #21 agreed, and this time let him go first at the fountain.


	36. Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags update: I've added Shin/Sena to the relationship tags, as I've gotten to a point in planning where I think it may (??) be a thing, and I wanted to give you as early warning as possible. My apologies for springing it on you after 30-some chapters! Whether or not it pans out, I don't intend it to be a major part of the story. The category remains firmly Gen. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! 

After the Guts captain left, Sena was a few gulps into the tepid fountain water when something made him look up—and nearly spit it right back out. Monta's head was floating upside down in front of him, inches from his own. Seeing his reaction, it split into a wide grin and said, "What's with the long face?"

Somehow, Sena managed not to bowl anyone over as he scrambled backwards, though he got a number of weird looks. ("Why not Monta?" he distantly wondered. " _I'm_ right-side up!") Sore muscles he'd never even been aware of now sent up furious complaints, loud and clear, at being worked again, so soon after the game. 

On closer look, it wasn't just a head. Monta had gotten into the stands and was hanging by his knees from the front row railing, which put his head right over the water fountain, in prime position to give unsuspecting drinkers a heart attack. 

"How did you get up there?" Sena finally managed to swallow. When he put a hand over his heart, he could feel it racing. "Aren't you... tired?" Half of the audience pushing its way out of the stadium had to filter down to the front row, and several of them brushed past Monta's hooked legs, sending him swaying. One of them was going to knock Monta right over, he was sure of it.

"Hell no!" Monta struck a pose, and almost fell off on his own. "Our first victory, Sena! Can you believe it? What were you so worried for?"

An involuntary grin stole over Sena's face too. He couldn't believe it, not really. 

After playing against Shin and Oujou, he'd been surprised at how easy it was to get past the Yuuhi players, some of whom didn't even seem to know the rules. Hiruma had sat him out to rest a couple times, but he'd been allowed back after just a few downs, so maybe he was building more stamina too. The important thing was that he hadn't failed, and he didn't know what to do with all the jittery relief in his limbs at that. He had half a mind to climb the bleachers with Monta, though he was sure his aching body wouldn't take it.

"I'm really glad we didn't lose." Sena looked behind him, and was reassured to find Hiruma hadn't moved since the last time Sena had looked over. To be fair, he'd been checking approximately every two seconds, and was starting to get a crick in his neck from it. Currently, his master was yelling something at Kurita, maybe about some play or another, emphasizing with sharp gestures that looked worryingly like a throttling motion. "I overheard some of the Yuuhi guys talking, I think... I think they're being sold. Because they lost." 

"Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for them?" Monta crossed his arms over his chest. His face was starting to get a little flushed, from the pooling blood. It was the most innocuous reason Sena had ever seen someone hung upside down. "This is a battle, Sena! There will always be winners and losers! Pity would be an insult!" 

And Sena was deeply grateful not to be on the losing side. Was that a terrible thing to think? 

He still didn't know what would happen to him if they lost here, and he honestly didn't want to. If Hiruma decided he'd outlived his usefulness, he'd count himself lucky to be sold, like the Yuuhi team was so worried about. Last time his contract had changed hands, it hadn't been worth a dime. It was hard to have illusions against simple math: if he ever stopped winning, stopped providing value to his master, the only mercy he could hope for was a quick end. 

He tried to tell himself that that meant he didn't feel sorry for the Yuuhi Guts, and what losing meant for them. 

Telling Monta was easier. "Yeah, you're right," he said, "Thanks, Monta." He took another quick drink, awkwardly close to Monta's head. "We should get going for the Oujou game, right? It should be starting soon."

"Right!" Monta said, but didn't move.

"Right..." When nothing happened, Sena checked on Hiruma again. Still yelling at Kurita, who had his hands on Komusubi's shoulders, smiling calmly as a buddha, even when Hiruma began to kick at his leg. "Should we... go?"

Still grinning, Monta said instead, "Hey, I saw you talking to that Yuuhi Guts captain just a minute ago. Atsumi, right?"

Sena hadn't known his name. "Uh, yeah, he was really nice about it all. I guess I always knew that someone would have to lose, obviously, but... I can't help but feel like I got his team sold, you know? I mean, we did. When they came on the field, you could tell they really care about football. It's kind of..." Sena firmly caught that line of thought before it could unfurl any further. "Er, why do you ask?" 

"No reason, really." A long pause, before Monta looked away, and seemed to find the water fountain below him fascinating. "Just trying to distract you, while I figure out how to get down from here."

"Oh! You're stuck! I'll go, uh—" This time when Sena turned, Hiruma had materialized right behind him, as if he'd teleported.

The sight went straight to Sena's knees, but Hiruma wouldn't let him bend them, gripping his upper arm and holding him firmly upright.

"If you go down, you're not getting back up. Someone should have told the fucking monkey."

True enough, in the time he'd been standing there, Sena's muscles had already started to stiffen. He tried to rewind back over their conversation, in case he'd said something wrong. Maybe he shouldn't have kept going on about the Yuuhi team, he couldn't let his master think he was sympathizing with the enemy, or that he wasn't going to try his hardest to win in the future. Before he could figure out how to explain, Hiruma was already pulling him away. "Get a move on, fucking shrimps!"

"Um, Monta is..." Sena craned his head back to see that Kurita had made it up to the front row, to where Monta was dangling. When he pulled Monta up by the knees, it looked as easy as plucking laundry from a clothesline. 

For his part, Monta held his arms crossed the entire time, dignified as a statue, like he'd planned it that way.

***

The Oujou White Knights' first match was against the Zokugaku Chameleons, Habashira's team. Watching Shin clean them up, some of Sena's buoyant relief dissipated. He couldn't waste time congratulating himself, or feeling sorry for others. He still had to get good enough to take on Shin—a tall order.

In their match against Oujou, Sena had been caught in the crush of the White Knights' power, but he'd only been able to see a small fraction of it at a time. From up here, they really did seem like knights, covering the entire battlefield with their orderly charge, sweeping up the Chameleons in their shining, relentless wave. Sena knew he was supposed to be studying formations and plays, but his eyes kept finding Shin's #40 jersey and watching it blaze across the field. He could have sworn that Shin had gotten even faster and deadlier. Every time Shin took down another Chameleon, Sena found himself cringing in sympathy—he'd be in that position soon, and he already knew how it felt.

After a particularly brutal tackle, he felt a kick on his shoulder—Hiruma, from where he was sitting in the row behind. Sena would have scrambled around, climbed over the seat back to go to him, but Hiruma only leaned forward and said, in a confidential tone, "You're the only one who can take on that fucking monster. When we play Oujou, you're not getting any breaks."

Against the tightness in his throat, Sena gave a short jerk of a nod. It couldn't be like today's match, where he'd tired out so quickly, once again. He needed more training.

The match ended with a one-sided victory for Oujou, and Hiruma took him down onto the field without explanation, leaving the others behind. He seemed to have a destination in mind, but as they passed by Zokugaku's locker room, he stopped short, and cocked his head, as if listening.

Then he pointed across the field. "Look, there's Shin. You go over there, shake him up some."

"Master?" Sena didn't have the slightest idea how to accomplish that. 

"Just fucking go, I'll be right there." Hiruma pushed past a couple Chameleons lingering outside, and disappeared into the locker room. From within, there came the sound of yelling, and the two Chameleons slowly swiveled their eyes toward Sena. If Hiruma's orders hadn't been enough, that was plenty of encouragement to bail. 

Sena hurried toward the other side of the field, where the Oujou team was gathered—well, mostly. Luckily, Shin was sitting by himself, conspicuously outside of the celebratory cluster of the other players. Also luckily, he looked up when Sena approached, and nodded a greeting. If it weren't for that, Sena didn't know if he'd have the boldness to go stand in front of him.

"Great game," said Sena nervously, then wondered if he was supposed to say something cutting instead, like Hiruma would have done.

The look Shin gave him was unreadable and intense. "I have a long way to go."

It occurred to Sena suddenly that, if Shin was reflecting on the match, he wasn't thinking about all the tackles, all the charges, all the amazing plays he'd made. If anything, he was dwelling on some shortcoming or misplay that only he was aware of. "I-I don't think so!" Sena said. "I mean I do too, an even longer way. Than you. To go," he finished, a disjointed mess. Why did it feel like he was shaking himself up more than Shin?

"Let's train together."

"What?" Sena managed to shut up for a second, and then repeated, "What?" 

He couldn't have heard that right. 

"If we both have a long way to go, then we can get there more quickly together."

"I." Sena stuttered backwards on faltering legs. "My master wouldn't—" He backed up right into someone, who reached out and caught him, before he could bounce away.

"I wouldn't what?"

Recognizing his master's voice, Sena stopped struggling immediately, and let himself be held in place.

"Hiruma." Shin stood, so that he towered over the both of them. "Your runner and I should train together."

"Oh?" Hiruma took a step forward, so Sena could see the challenging smirk on his face. "Trying to get a leg up, for when you have to face him?"

"We'll both get a leg up," Shin deadpanned. "On each other."

Hiruma turned the smirk on Sena, who choked. "You come up with this plan together, fucking shrimp?"

"No!" Did he think they were conspiring together? "We weren't, I mean, I wasn't—"

"Do. You. Want to?" 

It was a bewildering question—what did it matter what Sena wanted?—but equally bewildering was the way he reacted almost bodily to the suggestion, as if it was pulling him upwards, to stand taller. "I'll do whatever you say, master," he blurted, against the strange yearning that was rising within him. If he could be like Shin, he'd be too valuable to discard. He'd be able to fight any opponent that came his way. He wouldn't be so afraid all the time. But that was impossible, wasn't it?

"I'll hash it out with your fucking toothless coach," Hiruma decided. "You better bring him back faster. And in one fucking piece."

"I won't let anything happen to him," Shin agreed. It might even have been a joke, because he seemed to be smiling slightly, for the first time Sena could remember. 


	37. Shinai

Who knew how long Habashira would have raged around their hideout, screaming, smashing, blindly wrecking whatever was in range, if Megu hadn't come up behind him with her bamboo sword and smacked him, hard, on the back of the head. As it was, he swiveled on a hair trigger, swiping at the offending weapon, even as she jerked it just out of reach. Before he could grab for it a second time, she shot him an icy glare that doused him. The message was clear: trying to turn all his helpless fury on her wasn't going to get him anywhere. 

Clutching his head, he subsided onto the beat-up leather couch, nursing what he could swear was a concussion.

"You done?" Megu said. "What are you ranting about, there's no one even here."

Opening his eyes a slit, Habashira saw at a glance that she was right. Every single one of his men had left while he was still yelling and throwing things. It was just him, and Megu in her forbidding, ankle-length sukeban skirt, and a bunch of other broken shit strewn all over: counterfeit goods, motorcycle gear, empty beer bottles that he remembered each shattering with a satisfying pop. Even the couch cushions around him looked even more torn up than usual, like they had been clawed at. 

"They're getting real good at running away, aren't they," he said.

Megu lifted her sword again, threateningly, but seemed to think better of it. Head injuries were no joke.

She must have come in to see him yelling at empty air, and taken swift action. 

"It's been two days, Rui." She spoke the syllables of his first name like someone else would tug on a leash. No one else was allowed to use it, no one living anyway, and she knew, and always held it over him. "How long are you going to go on like this? It's pathetic."

"What's pathetic is that game we played." All on its own, his pocket knife had found its way into his hands, and he stabbed it into the back of the couch as punctuation. So that was where all these new rips had come from. "We could have kept going. But they all just gave up! What did we practice so hard for? Don't you care that we got knocked out, in our first game?"

Megu should care. She was their manager, in a sense. Their trainer, in others. She dropped by when she felt like it, left the team often stronger, and sometimes poorer, for it. The rest of the time, she was busy running her own, all-female gang, and while he had no idea what they got up to, he suspected she was better at it than he was. If nothing else, they actually listened to her, where his men only listened to threats.

"It was Oujou," she said, with unusual patience. "The new, revived Oujou. Your men were intimidated."

"It's me they should be intimidated by," he muttered, and sank back against the cushions. The throbbing in his head had dulled somewhat. Without the pain, and the fury it had interrupted, he found there wasn't much of anything left in him.

"Do you know why I'm here?"

"To beat me up?" He eyed the bamboo sword again.

"Because your entire gang showed up on my doorstep. I told you not to show your faces there."

Habashira threw up his hands. "Remind me to wave my knife at them some more. I'm sure it'll keep them in line for two seconds, until they decide they don't feel like it anymore."

"They wanted me to come snap you out of it, Rui. They came all the way out to my turf for that. What does that tell you?"

"Consider me snapped." There was something uncomfortable she was trying to get him to admit, and hell if he was going to be led there. "Job well done. I think your stick thing gave me splinters."

For a second, it looked like she was going to press the issue. Force-feed him something sentimental that he would have been unable to swallow. Then she turned away, exasperated, and slung her sword over her shoulder with a clack. "I'm not the only one here to see you."

"Huh?" 

"He was waiting outside when I got here, but when he heard you throwing your tantrum, he let me have first crack at you." She rolled her eyes. "Generous."

"Who?"

"I'll tell him you're cooled off now. Don't—" she swung the sword to point directly into his face, as he started to get up, "—make a liar of me, Rui." 

Raising his hands in exaggerated surrender, he aborted his attempts to stand. Pulled his knife out of the couch, and started to pick at his fingernails. 

"All yours," Megu said at the doorway.

Habashira looked up and nearly cut his finger off. "You again?"

In the entire time he'd suffered under Hiruma's thumb, the devil had never set foot in their hideout. Why was it any surprise that now, when Hiruma had supposedly freed him, should have been out of his life for good, he'd show up again: first in the locker room, minutes after their humiliating defeat, and now here right on their turf, grinning around him like he was on some sightseeing tour?

"Who said you could come here?"

Hiruma didn't waste any time with preliminaries, didn't comment on Megu, or the broken bottles on the floor, just swaggered over to the couch and dropped into it, half a cushion from Habashira. 

"How's your cash flow these days, fucking lizard?" 

Habashira sucked in a sharp breath, and felt it stab him right in the lungs. How dare Megu take away the rage that would have defended him against this? Now all that was left was a horrible sinking sensation. It felt like inevitability.

"You said—" But he'd been an idiot to think Hiruma wouldn't go back on his word the moment he needed something, the moment it would be convenient to hold that damn black book over his head again. He'd as good as admitted he'd never destroyed the dirt he had on them. 

Habashira thought about saying no, just to make a point, the way he thought sometimes about leaving it all behind, riding down the freeway until he got far enough that no one around him knew his name, or spoke his language. Then he gritted his teeth, resigned. He considered what plays the gang had in motion, and which were closest to producing dough. Jesus, how much did the guy need? 

"Depends," he said finally, reluctantly. "When do you need it by?"

To his great annoyance, Hiruma had the audacity to laugh. He had surrendered himself deep into their territory—yeah, the gang had bailed, but even alone, Habashira could take him. A scoot and a stab would end things neatly. Even Hiruma couldn't do anything to them from beyond the grave. Probably.

He looked up from his dark musings to find Hiruma watching him, with an infuriating amusement. "It's not for me. A whole fucking team from the tournament is going up for sale, and cheap. Misclassified. If you want them, I can put in a word. The quarterback is going to be tougher to get, but—"

And there went his limit. Without even thinking about it, Habashira flipped over to straddle him, and flipped his knife, to press snug against Hiruma's throat, free hand jamming his shoulder against the couch. Hiruma didn't resist, even turned up his chin a little, like it was all some game to him. "You come onto my turf, insult my team—"

"What team?" said Hiruma, all innocent, as he swept his gaze expressively around the empty room. He still hadn't reacted to the knife at his throat, and it made Habashira feel a little foolish, holding it there. He leaned his weight in, pinning Hiruma in place, and the physicality of it reminded him of that glorious moment when he'd punched the bastard in the face. Hiruma should have been carrying that black eye for weeks—Habashira himself still had bruises from that fight—but there was no sign of it now. What, was he wearing _makeup_? 

"I'm not looking to buy teammates." 

"Look," said Hiruma. "I got this baldy on my team, he's shit at everything, but fuck if he doesn't practice. Makes the rest of them work harder just to keep up. I'm not saying toss your fucking team, I'm saying they need some motivation. These guys for sale I'm talking about, you've never seen such dedicated idiots."

Sometime in all that, Habashira had let the knife fall away. Rather than go back to his side of the couch, which would have looked like retreat, he stood, wincing as one shoe crunched in the broken glass, and the other landed in a sticky patch. Maybe some of those bottles he'd thrown hadn't been empty. 

"We don't have slaves." He began to flick the knife in his hand, open, closed, open, closed, a soothing motion. "We don't do that."

"It's not my business, what you do with them after you buy them."

"They might like football, but they're not going to run with a gang." Of course Habashira knew which team it was. He'd studied them all, and there was only one that fit the bill. He couldn't imagine any one of those muscle-bound goody-goodies in his hideout, on his motorcycles.

"It's not my fucking business," Hiruma repeated, impatient.

The knife shut with a final snap. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't." At Habashira's look of disbelief, he shrugged. "Don't flatter yourself. I've been busting my ass trying to get Oujou and Seibu back together, because they're the best in our region, or they could be, and we need that kind of challenge if we're going to get stronger. Your Chameleons aren't shit, and you're out of the tournament. I don't give a damn about you."

Distantly, Habashira thought, _So, you're the reason why Oujou beat us._ They could have handled the Oujou from the spring tournament. He knew something had changed. "You trying to help those Yuuhi players, then? What's your angle?"

Hiruma shot to his feet. "I said giving me the ride was a fucking favor, didn't I? Now we're even. Fucking lizard, always has to second-guess everything."

He crunched over the glass, toward the door, but paused before he got there. "Besides, even I wanted a team of all free players once. Tickles me that the only ones that make without slaves are lowlifes like yours, and bastards like Shinryuuji."

There was a long silence, as Habashira let that sink in. Then: "What did you mean about the quarterback?"

And Hiruma beamed. "I knew you were listening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Merrr for suggesting that Zokugaku was all free players and that's why Habashira can't get them to practice. I thought it made total sense and ran with it - thank you!


	38. Trails

Shin had been in training since he was old enough to remember, which meant he had seen just about every exercise, technique, and regimen in the book, from those that only fell short of torture because they were applied to slaves, to those even used by free athletes—he'd witnessed as much with his own eyes, or he wouldn't have believed it. It was hard for him to fathom why a free person would wish to subject their own body to such training, when they could purchase another to do it in their place.

For Shin, who had been designated to this role since birth, it was simple determination to excel at his assigned purpose. 

For those like the monks of Shinryuuji temple, who were required to practice aestheticism, supposedly physical exercise was one way at it—but he'd met those players, and none of them had seemed particularly holy to him. 

For someone who had the right and the opportunity to choose any path they wanted, though? It went beyond imagination, that they would choose this, but it wasn't his job to imagine things. It was his job to submit to his training and continually enhance his performance.

And now, oddly, it was his job to train someone else. 

It had been awkward at first, but from his earliest memories, he was used to training with others, and after weeks of being shunned by the rest of his team—Takami's tentative efforts notwithstanding—and months on his own, before that, it was a relief to have someone at his side again. Say what you would about Coach Miracle Ito, at least he had allowed Shin this. 

All the lessons he'd internalized over the years, he found spilling forth with ease. Though he'd never done it before, it was second nature to assess what Sena was lacking (stamina, strength) and devise a regimen that would be beneficial to the both of them. As the weeks went by, he witnessed Sena's steady improvement with a strange pride, though he knew he'd have to face Sena soon, and was only making it more challenging for himself. If he wore away all of the light-speed runner's weaknesses, what wonder, or horror, would remain? He had the odd thought that, someday, when he was past his prime, if he were tasked with training others, rather than playing himself, he might even enjoy it. 

So here they were. The morning's route started, as always, from the residential district where they'd first met, but after a short jog, they had made it to the nearby park, all grassy hills with spiraling trails wound along their slopes. Sometimes it was rather picturesque, but it had been a dry summer and fall—the grass alongside the trails was yellow and parched, and the clear streams that sometimes made an appearance had shriveled to runs of muddy pebbles and grit. There were a number of others enjoying the park, though the hills were mostly clear, the steep climb likely too intense for a casual, mid-morning stroll.

Shin wasn't much for idle chitchat, but he remembered having to speak for his trainers while he jogged laps around them. For a long distance run like this, it was important to set a pace that Sena could maintain. The easiest test was to see if he could hold a conversation at the same time. Shin remembered the last time he'd encountered the entire Deimon team running, and Sena had been all but gasping for breath. That would be entirely ineffective, and not what he was after. 

Oddly, his memory banks, which had produced training rules and ideas without any problem, was far less forthcoming with examples of suitable small talk.

"Do you enjoy this?" he tried, as they made their way up the first hill. That didn't sound quite like any small talk he'd been subjected to, but it seemed to be roughly correct, in general form and topic.

Sena startled at the sudden question, but didn't sound terribly out of breath when he replied. Such an improvement already. "Do you mean, running?"

"All of it. Training, matches. Football."

Sena looked just as confused as Shin had, when Coach had sprung the question on him weeks ago. He couldn't help but feel a little gratified. 

"I-I never really thought about it. I guess... yes? I like getting stronger, and, and winning matches for my master. He hasn't made me sit out at all, these past couple games."

This was true. Wakana always included Sena's plays in the footage she gave him, and lately there had been a lot more of it, per match. Even from casual observation, he could tell that Sena's form was better, that he'd put on muscle, that his cardiovascular efficiency had improved. 

"I... I finally..." Sena stammered, and Shin frowned, wondering if he'd misjudged. Automatically, he began to slow, before he realized Sena wasn't tiring, just embarrassed. "I know when I'm going to face you next. I mean, when we're going to face Oujou."

"Hiruma finally told you?" 

"Not exactly. He told us it's the semi-finals coming up. Since your team hasn't lost yet, either, it must mean we'll play in the next round, right? We'll be facing each other in the finals, after all."

Shin felt a strange expression threatening to appear on his face, and gazed out into the distance to hide it, toward the top of the far hill. He vaguely remembered there was some kind of restaurant up there. Eggs Benedict, and such. A bus had passed them earlier on the trail, bearing those who wanted the brunch, without the hike. When he felt he was settled, he said, "You'll have to win this match, first."

"Ah, right!" Sena managed to even _sound_ flustered. "Of course, there's no way it's a sure thing, I didn't mean to say that! And, and we're fighting Riku's team, too, they're really good..." 

"Seibu would be a formidable foe, even for us." Shin agreed. This didn't seem to help; Sena nearly tripped, on nothing in particular. Shin tried to imagine what would happen if he brought Sena back to Hiruma injured, even with a scraped knee, and resolved to say something comforting. "Your team has come a long way." No one had expected Deimon to cling on into the semi-finals, winning match after match, but here they were. Here they both were. "I'll be waiting for you to make it just a little farther, so we can have our rematch."

Sena's eyes darted up to meet his, quick and nervous, before darting away. "Um, Shin?"

"Yes."

"What happens to you, if you... lose?" 

Shin gave this some thought. "Are you afraid of what Hiruma will do, if your team loses to Seibu?" Before he'd even finished speaking, Sena's presence had disappeared from his side. He turned, and found the other runner doubled over in the middle of the trail, gasping for breath. 

"Perhaps the hills were too much," Shin said, awkward. 

When Sena didn't respond, Shin stopped as well, and walked back toward him. "If my performance began to suffer, I might be required to do more training. I might have privileges revoked. I might be sold. I suppose you've observed other teams subjected to this."

"You don't understand," said Sena, shaking his head, and then his whole body. "I don't, I'm not that kind of slave. When he bought me, I knew I was disposable. I'm lucky to have made it this far. I-I can't believe I started thinking about the finals already. When we still have to play Seibu, and we're going to lose, and he's going to..."

"Your master has invested a great deal into training you. It would be foolish to throw that aside at this point." Shin reached a hand toward Sena uncomfortably, and then drew it back without making contact. But Sena seemed to feel the gesture. He looked up, with terrified eyes, but took a few quick breaths and then got himself moving again. This time, Shin followed.

"I've seen a lot of punishments on the losing teams," Sena admitted, "but never like I'm used to. Your coach was the worst. I thought maybe, there were things he did, where I couldn't see."

"Fear won't get you results. Miracle doesn't understand that."

Sena looked scandalized. "Can you say that? About your... your..."

Shin didn't respond at first. They had made it to the top of the hill, and finally started to see other people around. The bus that had passed them, on the way up, waited near the restaurant, doors open.

"I think it's different for a personal slave," he said, as he steered them toward the less busy side of the trail. "My contract is owned by a company, not a person, and I'm one of hundreds. They don't require loyalty of us. Just obedience, and results. I rarely receive individual attention, not like—"

"Oh!" Sena gasped, and Shin gave him a startled look. "Sorry, I shouldn't have... Sorry."

"What is it?" Shin couldn't remember Sena ever interrupting him before. 

"It's nothing. It's just, uh, that guy, I think I saw him on a commercial. I got surprised. Sorry."

Shin turned to look, and didn't spot anyone he recognized, from TV or otherwise, not at first. He'd been looking too far into the distance, and the man walking toward them had changed entirely: his gait, his posture, all his hard-won muscle replaced with the sleek lines of a form-fitting suit. Then he pulled to a stop, and something about the motion, the way his head followed the jerk of his shoulders, was uncannily familiar. 

"Sakuraba?" he said, in disbelief.

"Shin?" Sakuraba was with an older woman in a floral dress, who looked between them in surprise.

"Why, dear, do you know each other?"

Sakuraba seemed to catch himself, abashed. His gaze only flickered back to them one more time, before he managed to fix his full attention to her. An unfamiliar expression smoothed out his face, as he murmured, "An old friend. I'm so sorry, ma'am, I interrupted your story." He was holding a huge hat with a feather on top, and had a purple garment tucked under his elbow.

The lady only said, "Nonsense, it must have been ages since you've seen each other. Why don't you two catch up, I can see myself to the bus, it's all of ten feet away."

"I couldn't possibly!"

The lady patted him on the cheek. "I hardly need a chaperone at my age, dear." She winked at Shin and Sena on her way by.

After she was gone, Sakuraba turned to Shin with a stricken expression, but at least it looked more like one of his own again. "I don't know when I'll get another chance to talk to you, so important things first: I'm so sorry, Shin. I had no idea."

Sena looked between the two of them nervously. "I guess I'll just be going too—" 

Shin's hand snapped out on reflex, gripping Sena's shoulder like he was trying to run off with the ball. Shin was bewildered by Sakuraba—his presence, his _apology_ —and found he couldn't be alone with him. 

"What do you have to apologize for?" If anything, Shin was the one who—

"Hasn't Miracle been destroying the team?"

Despite what he'd said to Sena earlier, agreeing with that was a little dangerous. Rather than a yes or a no, Shin said, "What does that have to do with you?"

"Well— Of course—" Sakuraba looked equally puzzled now, when Shin still couldn't pick it up from just that. "Since Miracle bought the Oujou team because of me, obviously."

 _"What?"_ said Shin.

"Ow!" said Sena, and Shin forced himself to relax his grip. Sakuraba looked around, realizing they were right in the way, and herded them to the side, to a nearby bench. None of them seemed comfortable touching it, and so they just stood next to it, guiltily. 

"You didn't know?" Sakuraba stared down at the bench, as though he found it fascinating. "I-I still can't understand why Shogun wouldn't just sell. Me, I mean. I don't know why he wouldn't just sell me when Miracle came asking. I wasn't even a good... I don't know what he saw in me. But Miracle just had to—you know how he is, by now. So that's why he bought the whole team."

Sena gave a little gasp, and then looked like he wanted to disappear. 

"I know it's been hard, without Shogun. I've been watching how much you all struggled. It was all my fault."

"Is that why you let him take you off the team? To go into... this?" Shin looked toward the bus, which was still sitting there, waiting for more passengers. She was probably watching them, even now. 

"She's a sweet lady," said Sakuraba, half defensive. "One of the better ones."

"I always thought..."

"What, Shin?"

"I always thought it was because of... what I said."

"What you said?"

"In the hospital room, when you were injured. The last match you played. You asked me if..."

"If it would have made a difference, if I had been there," Sakuraba finished. Surprisingly, when he laughed, he sounded exactly the same. "That's why I asked you, Shin. I knew you wouldn't lie to spare my feelings."

Shin couldn't move. The world had gone gray, and when he stared at Sakuraba, he didn't know which one he was looking at, the one in the suit, or the one in the hospital bed, in the paper gown.

"You thought that's why I left the team? Because I got so discouraged by the truth? I can't believe you thought so little of me!" Seeing whatever expression was on Shin's face, he relented slightly. "Okay, I thought about it. But I wouldn't have wanted to give up there, not while I was still useless. And I never would have wanted you to lie to me." 

Some of the sound and color seemed to leech back into the world. There was a family playing with a dog, behind Sakuraba's head. The waiting bus finally closed its doors, and pulled away, with a creak and a roar. The sound seemed to remind Sakuraba of the time.

"Sorry, I wanted to stay longer, but I have to be getting back. I'm only supposed to be out for 18 hours, and it's been," Sakuraba looked down at the fancy watch on his wrist, and blanched. "I have to go, now. Shin, I've been trying ask Miracle if he'll let me see you, but he hasn't—"

"Don't," Shin struggled, "Don't trouble yourself for me."

Sakuraba looked down at his wrist again, nervously, and only then seemed to notice the hat he was still holding. "Oh no, she forgot this! And her cardigan too! But the bus—"

Shin and Sena exchanged a glance, and it was enough. Sena put out his hands for the garments, while Shin stretched his arms behind his back. Only when his muscles loosened did he realize how tense the conversation had made him.

"What are you—?"

"The bus has a low speed limit, and only makes back and forth trips between the two stops." Shin took the hat, and dropped the cardigan into Sena's hands.

"We'll get them back to her," Sena translated, as the two of them took off. 


	39. Deals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this could and probably should have been two chapters, but it was one chapter in my outline, so by golly, here you have it! 

Semi-finals. 

It was hard to believe that they were already here; even harder to believe that Sena hadn't messed up yet, or at least not badly enough to cost them their slot in the top four. He tried to focus on that, tried to remember that three of the four teams gathered today would make it to nationals. It was better than imagining the consequences of being the one team that didn't make it, or dwelling on the terrifying opponents they'd be facing from here on out.

They'd run into the Seibu team on the way in, and every one of them seemed to be carrying a thick binder—Sena hadn't been spying, exactly, but he'd gotten a glimpse when Riku and Mamori came over to check on him, and spotted his own picture in there, captured mid-dive, scrawled over with detailed notes and arrows and figures that suggested arcane formulas and trigonometry, all in Mamori's familiar, all-too detail-oriented hand. That didn't bode well. 

And, if they made it past Seibu, they'd have to face whoever won between the Bando Spiders and the Oujou White Knights, two more amazing teams—though for selfish reasons, Sena hoped it was Oujou. That match was happening first, which meant Sena had even more time to stew in his nerves, waiting for their own game, trudging after his teammates into the stands with lead in his feet and writhing eels in his stomach. 

It wasn't long before the two teams were announced, and streamed out onto the field. They had watched several Bando games before, but the moment the Spiders emerged, looking tiny against the stately formation of the White Knights, Hiruma let out a groan of disgust, and got up to leave. "Come on, fucking team, there's no point sticking around for this."

"But," Kurita, who had just settled down, waved out at the field. "The point difference—"

"Don't talk to me about a fucking point difference." Hiruma was already halfway down to the exit by the time Sena scrambled out of his seat to follow. 

It was true that the team they were seeing now was nothing like the flashy, energetic Bando that had dominated their matches before. For one thing, there were only six players, the smallest team he'd seen yet. Conspicuously missing were the two spectacular kickers who had clashed with each other on the sidelines as much as they'd clashed with the opponents on the field. Could they be sitting out? But why?

As Sena scanned the lineup in confusion, he did see one familiar face, and did a double take: the former captain of the Yuuhi Guts, Atsumi, stood at the end of the row. Sena felt a twinge of guilt: so the team had been sold, after all—and split apart too, from the looks of it. 

If he thought Atsumi would be happy for a second shot at the tournament, another look was enough to set him straight. From the grim cast of his face, the rigid cant of his shoulders, Atsumi wouldn't have looked out of place in front of a firing squad.

As Hiruma got down to the lowest level, he was waved down by Bando's manager, a woman who was always easy to spot from the stands for her bright blue hair and huge, reflective earrings. Sena vaguely remembered her name was Juri, but Hiruma seemed on more familiar terms; his disgusted expression deepened, even as he came to a stop. 

"Don't take this the wrong way, Deimon," she said, "but it's something of a surprise to everyone, that you've even come this far. I've checked the odds on your Seibu game, and they don't favor you."

Behind Sena came noises of outrage, as the rest of the team caught up. Toganou, who led the charge, was magically wielding a bat now, _a metal bat_ , which he almost definitely wasn't supposed to have. Sena suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable where he was standing, and ran to catch up with Hiruma. 

For her part, Juri stood her ground. For someone who was implying their team was about to lose, she didn't have a particularly taunting look on her face. She didn't have any particular look at all. "If things don't go your way, just remember: our offer still stands."

"The fucking owner is getting desperate, huh?" Hiruma bared his teeth into something like a grin. "Do you think it was smart, going down to the minimum six players, right at the end of regionals? If something happens to one of them, you'll be more substitutes than team. You'll be fucking disqualified."

Juri's eyes flashed along with her earrings, but whatever she wanted to say, she held it in check. "You don't have to tell me that. That's just how he... That's just how we do business. Teikoku's offer was too good—you might feel the same way, if you get knocked out here."

Seeming to sense a weakness, Hiruma's expression turned predatory. "You don't have to put on a brave face. Everyone knows you were against selling that fucking hair-comb. Here's a counter-offer: why don't you ditch that money-grubbing team of yours, and come be our manager instead?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Hiruma's hand shot out. Juri batted it away on reflex, but not fast enough to prevent him from smudging the makeup under one of her eyes, revealing a puffy redness, in startling contrast with the rest of her face, still untouched. It was obvious she'd been crying, but there was zero sympathy in Hiruma's voice as he pressed his advantage. "What's that? You refuse? Then don't fucking keep coming around, trying to make the same boring-ass offer to me." He brushed past her, and this time she stood aside, as Sena and the rest of the team followed. 

"Was she trying to _buy us_?" Monta demanded, running up next to Sena. 

"Only the ones that can be sold," Hiruma said nastily. "Like you, fucking monkey," which drew him a squawk.

"That's just how Bando works," said Kurita sadly, as they made it outside the stadium. "They're always buying and selling players, faster than anyone can keep track of. I really wish they wouldn't."

"It's a mill," Yukimitsu spoke up, startling them all. They hardly heard from him more often than Komusubi, most of the time. "You buy players, train them up, and then once they have a good tournament record, you can sell them for a profit." When Sena looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. "I've handled lots of accounts built up from maneuvers like that."

"Can't blame a guy for sticking with a system that works." Hiruma was more than happy to blame, though, if his expression was anything to go by. He finally stopped at a clear patch of grass, in the shadow of the stadium, and motioned them to gather up. The game had probably started already, and they were just about alone out here. "Since we're not going to watch the shit-show in there, it's bonus warm-up time!"

"But that's crazy!" said Monta, even as he began to stretch. "If the team was good enough to get this far, why break it up now?"

"He must think he can buy some more before nationals," Juumonji suggested. "That or he's done trying this year."

"But he bought that Yuuhi player just to make up the numbers," Yukimitsu pointed out. "That must mean he still wants to continue."

"And now he's probably sniffing around other teams as they get knocked out of the tournament," came an unexpected voice. "I wouldn't be surprised if he has an eye on Deimon. We're not exactly favored to win this matchup."

"Musashi!" Sena whirled too fast in his stretch, and almost lost his balance. It was his first time seeing Musashi away from the house, and he half expected the man to dissolve, like a mirage. "Are you playing with us? Are you... going to be okay?"

But Hiruma didn't acknowledge the momentous occasion, only kicked him in the back. "Too late, old man. They already tried to buy us out. If it hadn't taken you so fucking long to get here, you'd know that."

"I'm fine," Musashi said, ignoring Hiruma. "For a scummy owner like that, we owe it to that team to do better. We owe it to the ones who were sold. What a waste."

Sena nodded, confused. Luckily Monta asked the question he was thinking. "Not like we're fighting them, right? We're playing Seibu!" 

Musashi gave him a weird look, and then the rest of the team, before he turned it on Hiruma. "You really don't explain anything, do you?"

Hiruma shrugged. "I tell them what's relevant. Tie-breaking rules only matter if we lose, fucking old man."

Sighing, Musashi addressed them. "Every team that made it here has won the same number of games. But there are four teams left, so how do they decide which three go to nationals?" 

Sena had been wondering the same thing himself. 

"The two winners go, of course. And for losers, the tie-break is the point difference in their semi-final match."

"So if we lose here, we can still win if it's by a smaller point difference than Bando?" said Monta. There was no denying that Bando was going to lose to Oujou, in that condition. 

"If we lose here?" Hiruma spat, "What are you talking about, lose? Did we come here to quibble over points, or are we here to kill Seibu dead?"

"Kill Seibu, master," said Sena dutifully, though he had no idea how they'd manage that.

"Then finish your fucking warm-ups! Two laps around the stadium! Last one back gets a penalty."

"You would have rather had it the other way, right?" said Musashi quietly, as Sena jolted to his feet and took off, the others not far behind. "Oujou is a defensive team, while Seibu is all about the offense, like us. If it's a matter of point difference, Bando will have a much easier time with Oujou, than we will against Seibu."

"I already told you, you fucking old man," was the last thing Hiruma snarled, before they got too far away to hear, "If you're here to compete for third place, you might as well go back home to your chains—" 

***

Semi-finals. 

A single win would take them to nationals—but Kid knew better than to get ahead of himself with thoughts like that. The same was equally true for Deimon, and the difference was, in this matchup, Hiruma held the key to making sure they got that win. 

So, if he was a little distracted, he thought he could be forgiven. When Mamori appeared with a literal wagon-load of thick binders, it took him a moment to register what they were. Riku beat him to it, rushing over and plucking one off the stack, rifling through it in awe. There was a binder for each member of the team, containing detailed analyses of Deimon, including annotated photos, at various angles, of their every play.

"I don't know how we ever did without you," Kid said, but Mamori didn't react to the compliment in any way. If anything, she looked even more distracted than he was. "What is it?" 

"You know Juri from the Spiders? She just came to me with... an offer. They want to buy the whole team!" 

"Buy?" Riku said, dropping his binder, though he was the only not at risk. "The team??"

Kid felt his stomach sink. "Bando is known for doing things like that. Any team that gets pulled into their web gets chewed up and sold on. Nasty business."

"She's still waiting, by the stands." Mamori pointed. "I didn't know what to say."

"I'll handle it," said Kid. "Thanks." Beginning to make his way over, he paused. "She wanted to buy...?"

"All your slaves from you," said Mamori, "or any you would part with. I don't think she knew about... your situation."

Kid nodded quickly. A year ago, he would have laughed off the offer. Now, with such decisions no longer in his hands, this could only spell trouble—and right before the Deimon match too. He supposed he had to be grateful that his status wasn't common knowledge. Either the Bando owner hadn't done his research, or Hiruma hadn't made the records public. But as soon as Hiruma got wind of this, even if he didn't intend to sell, in his hands the threat of it would be weapon enough.

He found Juri waiting, as promised, touching up her makeup in one of those little mirror things. She ran the brush right under her eyes, and took a moment to notice his approach. 

"I don't suppose you're here to negotiate?" The neutral look Juri gave him, as she put the brush away, seemed every bit as painted-on as the powder under her eyes. He knew she wasn't doing this of her own accord. That didn't make things any easier.

"You made the same offer to Hiruma, I take it?" he said, hoping the answer was no.

"All three of you," she confirmed, and frowned when she saw his expression turn grim. "But I've been assured that your team is the most appealing. Miracle Ito said no, obviously, and Deimon is kind of... a rough set." 

It didn't matter. If Hiruma had heard the offer, then he'd know selling Seibu was an option too. Still, Kid forced himself to respond, "What makes you think I won't say no?"

"Look," she sighed, "I don't have to tell you what happens to your team if you sell them, so I won't. But I do have to pass on the message. You heard there was an offer, but have you seen it yet?" She pressed a scrap of paper into his hands. 

Kid didn't even unfold it. The number written there wasn't for him, but she wouldn't know that. If Hiruma wanted to cash in on his investment early, or hold the threat of it over Kid's head, knowing the numbers involved would only be more leverage for Hiruma to use, to bring him in line.

"I'm sorry about Koutarou," he said instead, and Juri gave a tight nod.

"Let me know," she said quietly, and checked her face in the mirror again.

***

All too soon, it was time. Kid met Hiruma in front of the referee, and warily shook his hand. He said the rote words about having a fair match, even as he waited for the order to throw it instead. Would it be here, during the coin toss? Or after, away from the ears of the ref? 

The coin turned up tails. Kid waited a fraction of a second, then said, "We'll take first offense."

"We were going to pick defense anyway," Hiruma blatantly and cheerily lied, as he walked away. "We've been dying to try our counter for that quick-draw pass of yours. You better ready yourself, and your fucking eyebrows too."

Kid, who had been bracing himself, picked over the statement with some confusion. It sounded like the standard fare from Hiruma, outrageous claims designed to throw off the opponent, needling but innocuous. If there was a hidden order in there somewhere, Kid wouldn't borrow trouble by digging for it. If Hiruma wanted a free win, he'd have to be more explicit than that.

Back on their side of the field, Tetsuma was standing straight at attention, eyes set on Deimon's receiver. There was something so pure about the steady fix of his stare, and the sight of it loosened the tightly-wound spring in Kid's chest. 

"You want to fight him, right?" he said, as they huddled up.

Tetsuma gave one swift nod.

"Then this here is your play." With his team around him, the familiar battlefield snapping the upcoming game into tight focus, his earlier worries felt distant and small. "Watch out for the kickoff, I recognize that Musashi. To save him for this late stage in the tournament, Deimon has been over-confident." 

"But they brought him out for us," Riku pointed out, and Kid frowned in agreement. It was true—if they'd saved Musashi up to this point, why use him in a fight that should be a sure win? There was no reason to, unless Hiruma planned to play fair, which seemed directly opposite to everything they knew about him.

As they set up for the play, Kid lost eyes on the opposing quarterback, but it wouldn't have helped anyway. What he really wanted to scrutinize was the inside of that brain, but he suspected what he saw in there would send anyone screaming. No matter, he would focus on the immediate situation. Faithful Tetsuma at his side. A tingling in his palms. A game to win.

He called for the snap and caught it when it came. As the human wall in front of him surged up, he took a throwing stance. There was no point miming handing the ball to a runner: both sides knew what the first play had to be. Was that why Hiruma had said what he did? No, focus. If he put any thought at all into Hiruma's taunts, then they would have succeeded.

The line broke in front of him, and a blur of dust and motion zipped out toward him. Of course it was Sena. What a change, from the trembling, injured slave he'd bandaged months ago, to a veritable threat—but one too late. By the count in his head, he knew Tetsuma was in position. Kid made the pass just as Sena reached him, and even had time to dodge to the side, an explosive thrill in his veins pushing all else aside. He looked toward Tetsuma just as a whistle tore shrilly through the air, fully expecting to see him finally tackled, after however much distance he'd managed to advance, after catching the ball. 

Instead, he was standing upright, hands still outstretched, empty. Pinned on the field instead was Deimon's receiver. Monta had caught the ball.

For the first time in an official match, Tetsuma hadn't completed a pass thrown at him.

"And I called Deimon over-confident," Kid muttered ruefully to himself, but the giddy rush of adrenaline still hadn't left him. 

He had never seen Tetsuma look so determined in his life. Hell, he'd never seen Tetsuma look so _anything_. 

What a game was football, he thought, and slapped Tetsuma on the back, as soon as he got close enough.

***

By halftime, they had pulled ahead. Tetsuma and Monta had traded victories with each other several more times, each looking more fired up and energetic, rather than less, as the game wore on. Kid, on the other hand, was starting to feel it. After checking in with each of his team, he slunk off into the locker room, where he sank gratefully onto one of the benches. Fielding and ignoring Hiruma's continual taunts somehow made the physical strain doubly exhausting, and it was a relief to finally allow himself to slump down where he sat, in the privacy of the locker room. 

Well, relative privacy—Tetsuma had followed him in, as usual, and had taken up position in an unobtrusive corner, silent and inert. But Tetsuma had been following him around his entire life, as familiar as his own shadow. There was no need to hide his exhaustion from Tetsuma, who doubtless already noticed it.

Kid pulled off his helmet and rested it on his lap, only to stiffen when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Figuring it for one of his team, he hastily un-slumped himself. Everyone was tired, but the captain should set an example.

Then he heard a familiar cackle, which only made matters worse.

"Where did you get the time to increase your speed even more, fucking eyebrows?" When Hiruma came into view, he looked fresh as a daisy, if hell had daisies, but Kid knew it had to be a facade: Hiruma's tiny team had been playing twice as much as theirs. "Too bad Tetsuma couldn't have improved too, right? Losing the catching battle right off the bat to us, why do you even keep him around?" 

Suddenly hyper aware of Tetsuma in the corner, Kid felt his grip tighten on the helmet, but he forced himself not to react. Hiruma was just trying to needle them, as usual, looking for any little advantage to seize. Honestly, he had the power to do a lot worse; Kid should be glad it was only talk and taunting for now, no different than he used with every opponent.

"On the other hand, I don't have to ask why he stays with you. He couldn't leave if he wanted to, could he?"

That one was low, but Kid reminded himself not to react. His gaze slid into the corner, where he was shocked to find Tetsuma with his fists clenched tight. Before his eyes, Tetsuma took a threatening step forward, which should have been as impossible as the locker next to him deciding to move on its own.

"Enough!" Kid snapped, before things could get out of hand, before Tetsuma could do anything else unexpected. "Why bother with these mind games? If you wanted to win, you know you only have to give the order." 

As soon as the words left his mouth, the sweat chilled on his skin. Reminding Hiruma of his power was the last thing he should have done. This was what happened when you let Hiruma get to you. 

"Oh?" Hiruma purred. Kid stared fixedly down at the helmet on his lap, so Hiruma put his hand on top of it, squarely in Kid's line of vision, each sharpened nail landing on the plastic shell with a distinct click. "After your team has worked this hard, and at this late stage, you'd obey? With a guaranteed fucking ride to nationals at stake?"

No, Kid wanted to say, but such a simple word was impossible between them. The note from Juri burned a hole in his pocket. "I know what's at stake," he said instead, hating the defeat in his voice, hating that Tetsuma was here to witness it, "for me and mine."

"How convenient." Hiruma leaned his weight into the helmet, digging it into Kid's lap until it slid right off under the pressure. Kid knew he could easily have caught it, but instead he just listened dully as it clattered to the floor. "Then, why don't you all kindly lie down, and let us slaughter you?"


	40. Locker room talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This chapter and this week have both been kicking my ass.

Long after Hiruma left, Kid sat staring at nothing in particular, just his helmet lying there, slightly out of arm's reach. For some reason it felt like too much effort to lift his eyes from the floor, a speckled-granite shade of anti-slip that he'd seen countless times, in countless locker rooms before; from the bottoms of the lockers, which were just open cubbies, mostly filled with the team's bags and spares; from Tetsuma's cleats moving toward him, pushing forward a long shadow, one step at a time, until it fell over him entirely. 

Tetsuma was his, and always had been. From a young age, it had been impressed upon him, the contract between slave and master. Tetsuma served him, and he protected Tetsuma. That was his job. That was how it worked. If something happened to Tetsuma, to the others, then it wasn't working right, simple as that. 

"There's always next year," Kid said, mostly to hear himself say it, as if to test how the words felt, tasted. 

He had never made any mental investment, really, in the idea of winning this, of advancing to the next stage, and then the next one after that. Gone were the days of his youth, where he competed tirelessly for first place, because nothing less would do. Putting that kind of pressure on yourself never ended well, he always said, and here he was, proven right once again. 

But the bitter truth of the matter was—and only now, with the option of winning taken from him, could he finally let himself admit it—they could have won. He knew his team had it in them, to beat Deimon, to beat Oujou, to even give Shinryuuji a run for their money. They could still win, if they fought for it. 

"What do you think, old friend," he said. "You've been a slave your whole life, I'm still trying to get the hang of it. Do we take the loss, or do we bring the devil's wrath down on us?"

In all of Tetsuma's life, he had never responded to an order with anything less than his full, meticulous might. It was obvious what the answer would be. 

But it never came. 

Hinging at the waist, Tetsuma picked up the helmet. Turned it upright, and held it out in offering, with rigidly extended arms.

"You... still want to fight? You still want to take that Monta head-on?" Kid shook his head in disbelief "Don't tell me, you still want to go to... that."

The Christmas Bowl. The ultimate, impossible dream. He'd never even let himself think it, in case the touch of his thoughts could somehow push the goal away, like groping for something through a narrow opening, and only knocking it farther with your grasping hand. But that didn't mean he didn't know it was there, and that didn't mean he didn't know how much his team wanted it, dreamed of it.

Tetsuma didn't want protection for himself, against Hiruma. He wanted protection for that dream, the one the entire team shared, the one Kid was too selfish to voice, even in his own head. But if that's what the team wanted, Kid would do everything in his power to make it happen. That was how this was supposed to work.

"You know what he could do to us." Kid finally accepted the helmet, pulled it on, while Tetsuma watched in obvious satisfaction. "If we're going to defy him, then we'll have to fight for... that. Anything less, and there'd be no point."

Because the Christmas Bowl was already an impossible enough dream, nothing had changed about that. It they took that as their goal, the odds were already so steeply stacked against them, that Hiruma's threats hardly measured at all. 

***

Hiruma didn't come back until the Seibu team was already huddling up, and when he did, he was _seething_. Sena took one look and backed up, to give him space to storm by. He wasn't the only one.

"Well?" Only Musashi seemed to find the wet-cat look amusing, rather than terrifying (most of them) or worrying (Kurita). "You manage to shake them up?"

"Less talk, more kick, fucking old man."

Across the field, a figure broke out of the Seibu huddle. Riku dashed over to Mamori, where she was taking yet more notes—as if she didn't have every member of Deimon's every detail carefully cataloged already, down to their shoe size—grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her over to join the huddle.

"What's that about?" Monta asked, right in Sena's ear, sounding a little too interested. 

"Extra... strategy?" Sena guessed, and couldn't shake off the ominous storm cloud of unease building up inside of him. 

Whatever it was, the enemy team sure seemed inspired. As the game picked up for the second half, Kid seemed somehow faster, Tetsuma steadier, and Riku, who Sena still had trouble thinking of as anything but an 8-year-old with scraped knees, was a force of nature, always appearing right in front of Sena, no matter which way he turned. 

"This is you lying down?" Hiruma muttered cryptically, as the team reset from another failed offense, and then raised his voice for the rest of them: "Hurry it up, you think we're made of fucking time?"

It was well into the fourth quarter that a flock of brown robes fluttered its way up the tiered stadium seating, towards the top row. Sena only noticed because he was sitting out with another nosebleed, and had his head tilted back. It seemed like a bad omen, or some kind of dark summoning ritual—here he was, bleeding again, and Agon simply appeared with his team, shark-like, drawn by a taste in the water. 

Sena hadn't forgotten that nightmare, not by a long shot, but the reminder of it made him choke, taste copper in his mouth. He could almost feel the hand clenched in his hair, dragging him this way and that. As the Shinryuuji team settled into the stands, too far away to count heads amongst the patch of brown, he rapidly scanned his surroundings, as if he had any hope of protecting himself, even if he did spot Agon coming. His eyes fell on Hiruma on the field, which at least made him feel better, and then on Musashi, who was lounged on the next bench over, waiting to kick. A moment ago, he'd been yawning into his elbow, looking one warm beam of sunshine away from sinking into a nap. Now he was sitting upright, staring into the stands. 

Of course. 

Sena was such an idiot. 

Who did he think he was, reacting like that, when Musashi, who'd been through a million times worse at Agon's hands, was unaffected? 

Then he noticed: Musashi's grip, clenched around the edge of his seat, was white-knuckled, pressed red at the fingertips. As Sena watched, the finished wood plank actually gave a sharp crack. 

The sound, or the sensation, at least drew Musashi's focus back. A wild look still in his eye, he glanced toward the field, seemed to read something there, and got up to walk over, just before the whistle blew. 

One of the players from the substitute pool, Ishimaru, had advanced the ball a single yard—nowhere near enough for another first down. If Sena was counting correctly, they would only have one more try on this offense, and it could well be their last one. Checking that his nosebleed had stopped, he hurried after Musashi, trying not to feel like the brown-robed figures were staring down at him from behind.

"We have hardly any time left," Kurita was saying anxiously, as the two of them joined the huddle. "Are we really going to lose, when we're so close to nationals? What about the Christmas Bowl? We won't even beat Bando on points, at this rate, unless..."

As he went on, Sena found himself bracing for one of Hiruma's usual outbursts, but it didn't come. Only when Kurita ran himself out of steam did Hiruma lean in, grim. "The fucking fatty's right. We only have two options here. One, go for the win, get a touchdown and a conversion. Eight points puts us in the lead. Or two, the fucking sub got us just close enough that a field goal's in play. Not normally, but the fucking old man's kicks are anything but normal. That closes the gap with Bando, but we still lose." 

"It's the safe bet," Musashi said, calm now. "I can make that kick. We play defensive after that. Run down the last minute on the clock, prevent Seibu from scoring again. We lose the game, but ride straight on to nationals."

Hiruma's eyes flickered over to Musashi, and—though Musashi looked completely recovered, as far as Sena could tell—immediately up into the stands, landing unerringly on the Shinryuuji section. "We knew they could show," he said, an undertone.

"It's fine," Musashi replied, just as low. "I'm fine."

"If the goal is nationals, the kick's the obvious play," Hiruma said. "It's what they'll be expecting. That's why there's no way in hell we're doing it." His gaze swung between Monta and Sena, as if deciding which one to pick. If Sena could have made himself smaller, he would have squeezed himself until he disappeared, but he knew what the outcome would be—his anxious gut had been telling him all day. Monta had been playing nonstop, while Sena had just been sitting out, resting. Sure enough, the swinging pendulum of Hiruma's gaze settled on him, and stayed. "There's no second chances after this, fucking shrimp. If we don't make it in this one play, the ball goes back to Seibu, and we're dead in the water."

"Y-yes, master." 

"Hiruma," Musashi cut in, annoyed. "I can do it."

"Don't try to make it about you, fucking old man." Hiruma said, kicking him in the leg. "We were never going to compete for third place, are you fucking kidding me? Betting everything on one last risky play, we couldn't call ourselves Devilbats for anything less." 

Musashi looked like he wanted to argue more, but Hiruma just kicked him again and strode away. Sena tried to follow, but his legs wouldn't obey him. He watched everyone else leave, swallowing again and again, but never feeling the tightness in this throat ease. Last to move was Musashi, who took a step and nearly stumbled, or seemed to, before immediately turning it into a swagger. When he looked back over his shoulder at Sena, his face under the helmet shone with sweat.

"Musashi..."

"We need you out here," was all Musashi said.

It was enough. 

Sena got into position in front of Musashi and knelt down, compulsively wiping his hands on the fabric of his pants, fears of the ball somehow slipping out of his grip making him dry imaginary moisture over and over. 

They'd practiced this. Even as they advanced their way through the tournament, they had done nothing but practice—they could never get complacent, because Hiruma wouldn't allow it. 

As he waited, entire body thrumming with tension, he caught sight of Kid across the field, watching them intently. For this last play, he and Tetsuma were both playing too, and Sena was suddenly sure it meant they were on to the whole plan. They were both offense players—why switch it up now, unless they knew what was coming? The shield of Hiruma's trickery laid bare, Sena had no choice: he simply had to run faster than them, than all of them. His hammering heart certainly felt like it was sprinting already. This was the moment that decided it, whether Sena was going to take his master to nationals, or whether he was going to finally, after all this time, take his master's wrath. 

Strangely, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. The ball flying into his hands. Sliding it down to connect the end solidly to the kickstand. Counting under his breath. Musashi arced his powerful kick, and now even Sena could see that something was wrong, because they'd practiced before, and it had never looked like this, Musashi's eyes darting around, never finding the trust and focus to block out everything but the ball, the kick. 

This was the right move, Sena realized. Maybe he could do it, maybe he couldn't, but there was no fallback either way. He scooped the ball up, as Musashi completed his kick through empty air, scrambled to his feet, and ran like his life depended on it. 

Had they fooled anyone? The first few of the Seibu team were already shockingly close, but Sena dodged around them, left, then right. He had hoped the pit of terror in his chest would melt into the usual rush of adrenaline, bright and pure, but instead it only seemed to claw at the inside of his ribs more, struggling to grow, to climb right out of his throat. 

He could do this. He had to do this. It was life or death. It was nationals or nevermore. It was—

Riku. 

Sena didn't know how it happened. Riku wasn't close enough, and then he was. Sena knew he could get away from Riku, he'd done it earlier, whirl around him and out of range—but the sudden immediate presence of him sent Sena spiraling into a panic instead. There was no way that would work a second time, his brain was screeching, just run, just get away from him, you're fast, speed is all you have— 

He flinched to the side, and Riku was already there, and dropped him. Sena hit the ground and screamed, tried to writhe his way back up, only to be checked bodily by Riku's unrelenting weight, pinning him down all over.

All over. It was all over.

Sena's body got the message a moment later, and went limp. 

Over the roar of the crowd, and the much louder roar of blood in his ears, Sena looked up into Riku's face, inches from his own, and watched his lips move. 

"I didn't beat you, Sena," he said. "You let fear beat you." 

When Riku reached down with his hand, Sena's was almost too floppy to take it. He shivered all the way up to his feet, and didn't know how he stayed upright when he was released. 

Riku had always been like that, in the old days, always trying to help him, to make him stronger. 

Now Riku had just killed him, but Sena didn't blame him, and definitely wouldn't tell him. He only huddled in place, a dead man standing, and watched Riku walk away from him for the last time.

***

Kid let himself celebrate with the rest of the team, but kept half an eye on Deimon. He was no stranger to the devastation and rage of loss, had experienced it himself more than a few times. Deimon's giant lineman was sobbing openly, the rest of the line fighting with each other under his shadow. Monta was being physically restrained by their kicker, and looked ready to tear into the ref if he was let go for even a second. 

But it was Hiruma that Kid was focused on. Even from this distance, it was obvious there was a stream of profanities pouring out of his mouth. He turned so suddenly that Sena beside him flinched, raising his arms, but Hiruma only kicked a nearby bench, toppling it over. A pair of refs were heading toward him, and before they could close in, Hiruma snapped something at Sena that made him duck, and disappeared into their locker room. 

No one followed. No one dared.

If Kid had half the brains of a farm animal, he'd stay away too, but he'd never believed in putting off the inevitable. For now, Hiruma was alone in there, which had to be better than doing this out in the open. 

"Stay here," he told Tetsuma, who stiffened, but didn't follow. "Just going to have a word," he added, when Mamori looked up at him with a crinkle between her eyebrows. 

It was dark in Deimon's locker room, eased only by the light from the doorway, and the faint red glow over the emergency exit. The shower was running, but Hiruma was still sitting square in the middle of the room, working on removing his cleats.

"Come to gloat?" he said, worrying at the laces with agitated spasms of his hands, as if he'd forgotten how they worked. 

Kid didn't know what to make of that, but that was becoming a common pattern, today. 

"My team," he said, carefully. "They had nothing to do with it. They were entirely ready to lose, if I asked them to." It could even be true, for all he knew, which was why he had never asked them. "Do whatever you need to do, but don't let them face the consequences for my decision." Hiruma still hadn't said anything, still hadn't made progress on his shoe, so Kid steeled himself and added, in as humble a voice as he could manage, " _Please._ "

He couldn't see Hiruma's face, couldn't make out much of him except his slumped-over form, slowly straightening up, like cobra from its coils. "Okay," said Hiruma, and motioned him over. 

That seemed too easy. Kid had a saying about things that were too easy. Warily, he walked forward. He thought he could take any punishment, if his team was left out of it. He was sure Hiruma knew it too, which was why the simple agreement left him wrongfooted.

He was almost right up next to the other man—their knees would have knocked together, if he'd taken another step—before Hiruma spoke up, a feral rasp in his voice that sounded unlike him. "You went out of your way to come hear your punishment, fucking eyebrows? Just couldn't wait for it? You rip victory right from my teeth, and then want your punishment now, here, with the taste of blood still in my mouth?"

"If you leave them out of it," Kid felt his stomach drop, "whatever you want."

"Then here it is." Hiruma's hand shot out, grabbed him by the jersey, and began to pull him down, "I want you," lower, "to look me in the eye," lower, "and tell me," _lower,_ "—that you want to go to the Christmas Bowl."

The shock nearly buckled Kid over; he only managed to keep himself up thanks to the knowledge that, if he toppled over in this position, there was nowhere to fall but right into Hiruma. The thought was enough to lock his knees into place, even as he sputtered, _"What?"_

"Too painful to even say, you fucking eyebrows? You should have thought of that, before you disobeyed me."

"I." Kid's mouth had gone dry. He tried to pull away, but didn't dare break Hiruma's grasp. "I don't understand. You ordered— Nationals— Our team—"

"Your team gave us the best practice of our lives." A second tug, and this time Hiruma finally released him. "If we can't beat you, how are we going to beat Shinryuuji?"

Kid took a step back. Hiruma made no move to stop him, so he took another. "If you never wanted us to throw the game in the first place, why?" Why the order? Why put him through the agony of struggling with it? 

"Isn't it obvious? You fucking defeated yourself before we even stepped onto the field. But as soon as I told you to lose..."

"...we became determined to win," Kid finished. "I always took you for a sore loser." 

"Oh, I am." Hiruma mustn't have been grinning before, because now that he bared his lips for it, the glint of his teeth shone even in the dim light. "I fucking am. But we haven't lost yet."

"You're... out of the tournament," Kid said slowly. Better to get it out there now, in case Hiruma had somehow forgotten. "Bando takes third place, not you."

"You think I'm all out of tricks?" Hiruma said, so softly Kid had to strain to hear him over the sound of running water. "Don't fucking underestimate me. Now go on, say it."

At first, Kid blanked on what Hiruma was asking. Then he remembered: he was getting off lightly. "Can't exactly see your eyes, to look into them," he pointed out. Even he couldn't pretend he wasn't stalling.

The bright rectangle of Hiruma's phone screen flared to life under his chin, lighting up his face from below, making it even more horrible than usual. The cruel amusement dancing in his eyes didn't help. Whatever else was going on here, he was genuinely enjoying this. 

"I..." Kid said, and Hiruma's grin widened. "I want..." But it was true, wasn't it? He and Tetsuma had already decided. Being afraid to say it didn't make it less so. "I want to take first place at nationals. I want to take my team to the Christmas Bowl," he finished in a rush.

"Do you? That's just too fucking bad." Hiruma snapped off his phone, leaving darkness, and the afterimage of his grin. "Because we'll be there too. And this time we're going to destroy you, whether you let us or not."


	41. It's not murder

Shin expected all the players to be in their respective locker rooms by the time he made it down to the field, and had a vague plan of pulling Hiruma aside for a word. Instead, the Deimon team was nowhere in evidence, their locker room dark and empty. Shin entered anyway, and rapped on the plaster wall of the doorway. 

"Don't remember putting down a fucking welcome mat!" came the answer, snappish and immediate.

Not empty after all. Shin helped himself to the lights. 

The open lockers still held the team's gear, so it wasn't that they'd all finished and cleared out in a rush. There was no one in the main changing area, and he followed the voice around the corner to the tiled back, which bore sinks and mirrors along one wall, shower and toilet stalls along the other. 

And Hiruma, standing right out in the open. In more ways than one. 

"First the fucking eyebrows, now you," he said. "This isn't fucking office hours." He had a towel, but was presently using it to scrub at his hair. There was a duffel bag open at his feet, clearly containing a change of clothes, but none of them had made it on to his body. 

Shin averted his gaze.

"What's the matter?" Hiruma's voice carried an audible sneer. "Remind you of simpler times? Too bad, I don't have cash on me." 

"You can be cruel when you're angry," Shin noted, refusing to be taunted. If anything, it was a reminder that he knew Hiruma's moods by now, had learned them all, one hour-long session at a time. 

"And what mood makes you talk like a fucking robot?" Hiruma said. There were no sounds that suggested he was making any move to get dressed, or even cover himself up. Shin briefly wondered if it was intentional, the nudity some kind of ward, to prevent Shin from being able to look at him straight.

Instead, Shin glanced around for something to use, and spotted a clipboard sitting precariously on one of the sinks behind him. Grabbed it, and nearly looked in the mirror, before he caught himself. When he turned, holding it up half an arm's length out, it neatly blocked out Hiruma's body, from the chest down. 

Finally able to make eye contact, he caught it and refused to let go. "Fear isn't a good tactic," he said. "You won't get your best performance out of Sena by threatening him." 

Hiruma didn't respond. His skin, or at least the above-shoulder parts of it that were visible, was wet and flushed. One eye was sallow with an old bruise; the other narrowed as Shin spoke. When the towel fell away, it was streaked blonde with dye, and the hair under it stuck up in the damp.

"I'm familiar with his run," Shin continued. Perhaps Hiruma just didn't get it yet. "I'm certain he could have gotten past Seibu's player at the end, but he froze. I observed fear in his run. Fear not of the other player, but of you."

Hiruma stepped to the side, experimentally, and Shin doggedly followed the movement with his makeshift shield, back and then forth again. Seeming to admit defeat, Hiruma finally began to dress, flicks of pale limb appearing around the edges of the clipboard as he unraveled a clump of clothing out of his bag. 

"Fucking shrimp is braver than you think." He shrugged into a loose shirt. "He choked, that's all."

"He thinks that if you're dissatisfied with his performance, you'll have him put down." It wasn't unheard of, to have a slave killed, if their misbehavior went beyond correction. For Sena to fear it simply for making a mistake, though? To be on the verge of tears, just trying to explain his apprehensions to Shin? No one could play under those conditions, not optimally. 

There was a barely noticeable pause in Hiruma's movements, before he chuckled darkly, and continued to shake the wrinkles out of his pants. "What makes you think I won't?"

Shin frowned. Had he misjudged? Sena had spoken as if it were a foregone conclusion, the consequences for failure. Did he really have reason to believe Hiruma would do such a thing, after all? If Sena was in a precarious position, it would be easy for an inapt remark to make matters worse. 

But no, he was confident he understood how Hiruma worked by now. As Hiruma pulled his pants on, Shin lowered the clipboard. "Winning is all you care about. I'm simply giving you advice about how to win. You may be out for this tournament, but there will be others. Sena will perform better if he's not afraid. You and I both want to see him at his best."

"And you thought now was the best time?" The pants Hiruma had just pulled on began to buzz, and he gestured as if it proved his point. He dug the phone out, jammed it between ear and shoulder, and growled, "Now what?" as he did up his belt.

As a tinny, indistinct voice came out of the phone, Shin put the clipboard back down where he found it, on the edge of the sink. There seemed to be some diagrams drawn on the top sheet, which he scrupulously avoided reading. 

When he looked up, Hiruma's reflection was studying him seriously in the mirror.

"All right, fucking monster," he said, as he hung up. "Now I'm listening."

***

Sena followed the others in some kind of daze. They had all left the stadium, which seemed weird, since they hadn't even changed yet, but maybe nobody wanted to go into the locker rooms where Hiruma was, not when he was _like that_. Sena sure didn't. 

He only noticed they were all gathered around Doburoku's RV when it was suddenly his turn to go in. Kuroki came out, hair dripping, and cracked his neck, the motion briefly dragging the ugly scar on his neck into view, before he tugged his shirt collar back into place. Seeming to sense Sena's stare from behind, he returned it with a scowl over his shoulder, which was enough to spur Sena scrambling into motion. 

Looking around hastily, Sena realized he was at the front of a loose queue. Were they all waiting to use the one shower in there? Not wanting to hold up the line any more, he hobbled his way into the vehicle, past the driver's seat, into an area with a cramped couch and table. Juumonji was on the couch, holding an ice pack to his shoulder. There wasn't much space to maneuver, and Sena furiously stared at the worn carpet floor as he wormed by. He'd almost made it past before something made him stop and turn—and then hesitate.

"What's the matter, you don't know how to use it?" Juumonji said, putting the ice pack on the table, and pulling on his shirt. "It's just like a normal shower. Door pinches, though."

"N-no, I was just wondering..." Kuroki's scar flashed again in his mind's eye. He'd always known what it was, of course, but it had never seemed like any of his business. Until now. 

"Is there... Can you help me?" Sena looked aside, heart pounding wildly at his own boldness, and touched the back of his own half-turned neck, as faint and as tentative as he'd touch barbed wire. "With... this."

Juumonji stopped what he was doing immediately. When he got up, his body seemed to swallow up the entire remaining space, making Sena shrink back. "Are you serious? What's going on?" He walked to the window and pulled the curtain shut with a quick snap, but not before peering outside suspiciously. 

"Well, I," Sena held back a sob. "You know."

"What?"

"I... I don't want to die." And that was the problem, wasn't it? He was always being disobedient like this. He was a slave who'd outlived his purpose not once, but twice. The first time he'd run, and Hiruma had found him, and given him a second chance, wholly undeserved. Was he insane or just entitled, to think he might get another miracle like that? 

But despite all his training telling him he should just submit, just die if that's what his master wanted, a part of him couldn't help but try desperately to look for a way out. Last time he'd run with no plan, just instinctual terror seizing an opportunity. Now, if there was a way to take out the tracking chip, like Juumonji had done for his brothers, couldn't Sena actually stand a chance? 

"It's Hiruma?" Juumonji was looking at him with furrowed brows. "You really think he's going to murder you?" 

"It's not murder," Sena said automatically. It wasn't like he was a person. 

But that wasn't the question Juumonji was asking, and if he had to ask, it meant he wouldn't understand the explanation. That Sena was already on borrowed time, had been since day one. That he hadn't even earned the second chance he'd wasted, much less hope for a third. 

"Can you help me?" he repeated instead. "I know it's... It's a lot to ask. I can pay you back, I mean I can try—"

"Hey. Stop." Juumonji glanced out under the curtain again, then twitched it back. "Look, that Hiruma is a crazy bastard, but even I don't think he's _that_ crazy." 

Sena's stomach did a flip. He'd made a huge mistake. "S-sorry. Sorry. Just please don't tell him I asked, please—" He already had a death sentence on him, but there was always a way to make it worse. 

"Let me finish. I don't think he's that crazy, but that doesn't matter. You want to run away from your master? Hell yeah, I'm there. Say no more."

Shocked gratitude made Sena feel faint. He leaned, hard, against the table, hand slipping in the wet from the ice bag before it found purchase on the edge. 

" _Thank you_ ," he breathed, and meant it. He didn't buy the flippant tone for a second. This was a serious crime, and Juumonji could get into just as much trouble, even be enslaved himself, if he was caught. "So how do we..."

"You get changed, it'll be easier to move around. I'll talk to the guys, we'll leave in five minutes."

"Wait!" Sena grabbed the hem of Juumonji's shirt as he turned to go. "I-I thought you might be able to do it... here?"

"I don't have the right stuff. We have to go shopping."

"Isn't Hiruma going to notice you missing? He'll know you helped me."

"You let me worry about that." 

Sena shook his head, soundlessly. He hadn't planned this at all, hadn't even thought the option existed, until a minute ago, and now it felt like it was all happening too fast. "I-I don't have clothes here, it's all in the locker room."

Juumonji shook him off, impatient now. "Fine, we can get you new stuff, once you're chipless."

"Do you have money?"

"Did I say we were going to pay for it?" Sena gave him a shocked look, and Juumonji rolled his eyes. "Oh, so murder is cool with you, but theft isn't?"

"It's not murder—"

Juumonji grabbed his arm, and started to drag him down the aisle. "I know a guy. Enough talk, let's go."

***

They'd been walking for at least twenty minutes before Sena realized his heart no longer felt like it was beating out of his chest. What he was doing wasn't quite so shocking if he didn't think about it, just pretended he was on some errand for his master. It helped that Juumonji's presence at his side felt confident, assured.

They'd hit a grungy shopping district, with shabby storefronts that spilled their wares out onto the sidewalks: plastic things, and odd spices, and even some hopeful football trinkets, this far from the stadium. Some of the more aggressive stores had hawkers yelling and trying to pull people in, but Juumonji projected an unapproachable air, and they weren't stopped.

"Don't look now," he said under his breath, as they passed a stall roasting chestnuts, the scent and steam wafting into their faces, "but there's a cop."

"What?" Sena's overworked heart started hammering again with a vengeance.

"I said, don't look."

So, Sena kept his head fixed forward, awkwardly following with his eyes alone, as the uniformed woman glided toward them on roller blades. As she passed by, she put a finger to her ear, as if touching an earpiece, and then executed a smooth turn. "Excuse me!" 

Sena blanched. He thought about pretending he hadn't heard her, but Juumonji, who was still gripping his arm, came to a stop, so Sena couldn't get far himself. Holding his breath, he turned to see the officer rolling easily back over to them, chipper smile on her face. 

"Hey! Sorry to bug you guys, but..."

The world went a little white around the edges. 

"Are you a football player?"

Sena let out his breath in a gasp, which turned into a cough, earning him a dirty look from Juumonji. Smooth.

He had taken off most of his gear, but was still in his jersey, which must have caught her eye. "U-u-um," he said. 

"I knew it! You just came from the tournament, right? I bet my brother would know you, he knows all the players. Are you a slave? Do you have any free players on your team? Honestly, he's too old for me to run around trying to cold call for him, but I promised our parents I'd watch out for him, so what can you do? Deimon Devilbats, huh?" she read off his jersey, as she skated around them in circles, looking from all angles. "Are you guys recruiting?"

Sena shot a desperate glance up at Juumonji, who finally stepped in. "We're really in a hurry, officer. Running an errand. For his owner."

"Oh!" The officer slid back on one skate. "Of course, didn't mean to interrupt." She turned to go, and Sena almost, almost breathed again. Then she spun right back around. "Say, do you mind if I scan your chip? Just routine, you know how it is." 

Sena shot Juumonji another panicked look. This time Juumonji looked just as wide-eyed, but gave a reluctant nod. What else could they do? 

Meekly, Sena bent his head for her, automatically putting a hand back to hold up his hair, though it was no longer long enough to cover the chip site. 

The officer rolled around him one more time with her phone. There was a loud chirp, and then she said just as brightly, "All set... Sena! looks like your registration is in order! Thanks for the chat, you both. See you around!"

The two of them walked off hurriedly. Juumonji sped up a little, so Sena did too, which made Juumonji speed up even more, until they were both nearly running.

"She's definitely going to call Hiruma," said Juumonji under his breath. "Change of plan."

"Yeah?" Sena said, relieved that there was a plan. 

"We're going to go around this corner, I'm going to smash the closest glass thing, a light or a window or something, and we're going to hack that chip out of you the hard way."

_"Huh?"_

Juumonji's eyes looking down at him were gray and pitiless. "It won't be pretty, but we don't have time. It's going to take five minutes, tops, before she figures out you're a runaway. We need to get you chip-free and actually running by then. We can deal with infection later."

Horror made Sena speechless, but as Juumonji turned them around the corner, Sena forced himself to look past the fear, past the gruesome idea of being cut open by some jagged glass in the middle of an alleyway, Juumonji digging inside him for the chip, while the cops closed in around them. Yes, that was terrifying, but as he noticed Juumonji's grim expression, he could have slapped himself. 

So selfish, as always. He had to stop thinking about himself for once. 

"This isn't going to work, is it?" This so-called plan was even riskier for Juumonji than the original one. With the police right around the corner, there was a good chance he'd be caught in the act. 

Juumonji had picked up a good-sized rock from the ground, and sped them up into a run. "What?" he said, distracted, looking around them in every direction. They had gotten out of the main thoroughfare, and into a residential area. Gone were the glass storefronts, just when Juumonji was probably looking for one.

"It's illegal to mess with a tracking chip. You'll go to jail. Or worse." 

Juumonji scoffed. They passed another intersection, and he picked a direction at random. "It's a little late for second thoughts now." As if on cue, there came the sound of shouting somewhere behind them.

"Not for you," said Sena urgently. "You can still go back. Pretend you were never here. I'll run. That's what I'm good at." He was better off than the last time he tried this. At least he had shoes.

Seeing that Juumonji was going to argue, Sena desperately cut him off. "We can't stick together. I'm faster than you. Please, Juumonji. Just go." 

"Unbelievable," said Juumonji. "First time you say my name."

The shouting behind them grew louder. It sounded like there was more than one person in pursuit.

"Fine, we'll split up at that intersection." He listened, then motioned with a sweep of his arm. "You go left, I'll go straight." He stopped at the corner, and chucked his rock down the other direction, for a distraction. There came the sound of breaking glass, but Sena didn't look back, just ran. 

He was faster than Juumonji, but neither of them had stated the obvious: he wasn't faster than the tracker in his neck. 

As it turned out, he wasn't faster than a cop on roller blades either. 


	42. No complaints

Once Sena realized he was cornered, he didn't put up a fight. 

If he'd been thinking straight, maybe he would have—anything would be better than what Hiruma had in store for him, especially now—but there was no calculation to it at all. Maybe the small measure of rebellion in him had burned out. Maybe his instinct to submit to authority was too deeply ingrained. Maybe he sensed that there was nothing left in his future but pain, and wanted one last moment of peace before he was forced to meet it.

Whatever it was, he put up no resistance as they cuffed his hands behind his back. At the station, they snapped a collar on him, cheap nylon that sat weirdly against the skin of his throat, and scribbled something on the tag. After they left him in the holding cell, he automatically tried to pick it up and read it, but the bite of the handcuffs brought him up short.

In just a few months, he had already gotten so used to being unrestrained. 

At least he could be thankful that he was alone in the cell, which looked big enough to hold a dozen more runaways like him, and even more thankful that he hadn't seen Juumonji at all since they'd split up. Was it possible that he'd made it back safely?

Now Sena settled himself miserably on the shelf that he assumed was meant to be a bench, still worn and sore from the game he didn't want to think about, and the failed escape attempt that he _really_ didn't want to think about, huddling as best he could against the inevitable. 

He had just about memorized the bars, the fluorescent buzz of the lights, every chip in the paint on the wall across from him, when there came the sound of voices echoing down the hall, startling him from his daze.

"...That's what I'm trying to tell you, Maria, it was cola, mostly cola..." 

A bulky man in a pin-stripe suit lurched around the corner. No, it was two people—every couple of steps, they would fall out of sync, and a slim woman's silhouette would detach from his. He had his arm draped over her slender shoulders, almost engulfing her, and it seemed impossible that she was supporting his weight. But, somehow, together, they made their way down the hall.

"Then why were you in the drunk tank?" the woman, Maria, said. "Why did I get a call, in the middle of my dinner, to come bail you out?"

The man only sagged into her in response. Sena had the suspicion that he was exaggerating it, a thought that was all but confirmed when the man came to an abrupt stop in front of the cell, and stared into it, any hint of muzziness gone from his expression.

Caught staring back, Sena tried to avert his gaze, but there was nothing else to look at in the entire hallway, every inch of it already seared into his brain. 

"Deimon #21," said the man, and tilted his head back, seeming to read some invisible ledger from the inside of his eyelids. "Your team is having some... retention problems, hmm?"

Sena hunched over his jersey, but the damage was already done. Not for the first time, he wished he'd just gotten changed before all this had started.

"Next time, why don't you come running to me. I'll take care of your little problem, you hear?" The man ringed his forefingers into an OK sign, and then flicked the back of his neck with them. 

Was it that obvious to everyone, what he had done? Did he have some kind of brand on him, showing his guilt? There wasn't going to be a next time, anyway. Hiruma would make sure of it.

"Don't drunk-talk," said Maria coldly. As she pulled the man away from the bars, he seemed to remember how drunk he was, and leaned into her heavily. 

"Thank god I have your support," he slurred.

After their voices had faded, Sena finally said, into the quiet, "I... don't even know who you are."

***

When they brought Sena out, he spotted his master at the front desk, looking out of place in the police station, doing something as mundane as filling out forms. The entire place looked more high-tech than Sena would have expected, touch screens everywhere, digital notices instead of posters plastered on the walls. The front desk wasn't even manned by a receptionist, but by a touch-screen kiosk, that seemed to be complaining about some missing document. 

Hiruma turned away from it, caught sight of Sena, and immediately puckered up into a frown.

"Can someone get those fucking things off him?" he said, waving in Sena's direction.

Besides Hiruma and Sena, the only "someone" in the room was the officer who had retrieved Sena from his cell. He seemed a little offended, and gave Sena a sharp nudge. 

Realizing he had instinctively frozen in the doorway, Sena walked forward on numb legs, nausea rising within him at each step.

"I'll find some keys for those cuffs," the officer said, and vanished, leaving Sena alone to kneel down at his master's feet, and try to remember how to breathe. 

That meant when Hiruma leaned down over him, Sena didn't have anywhere to retreat to. He pulled instinctively against the handcuffs, which got him nowhere; could only mumble desperately, "sorry, I'm sorry," and squeeze his eyes shut. He didn't really think Hiruma would do anything to him here—not because it wasn't Hiruma's right, but because surely it would be too messy, in the middle of the police station?—but he still flinched with his entire body when the touch came. A terrified whine filled his ears, and it took him longer than it should've to realize that he was the one making it. 

By the time he'd managed to quell his trembling throat, Hiruma had unbuckled the fastening on his collar, and lifted it to the kiosk, where he scanned the tag with a beep.

As he set the collar down by the forms, he glanced down again. "Are you hurt?"

"N-no, master," Sena rushed to reply, swallowing raggedly against the terror. His first instinct was that Hiruma was checking if he was in ready condition to play. Then he remembered that he'd lost them their spot in the tournament, there was no more football or any future at all for him, really, and he didn't know what the question meant. Surely the fact that Hiruma was here at all showed he wasn't done with Sena yet. It was hard to say whether that was more or less terrifying than the alternative. 

This time when Hiruma reached for him, he made sure not to flinch, or to vocalize his fear. He didn't know what good it did him to be obedient now, after he'd already committed the ultimate betrayal and _run away from his master_ , but maybe it was just ground-in instinct, like earlier, with the cops. 

Maybe it helped, because Hiruma didn't hit him, only stroked the back of his neck, tracing precisely where the collar had chafed at him all afternoon long, where he couldn't shift it or itch it thanks to his bound hands—where he still couldn't.

"Master?" Sena said, but Hiruma had gone back to the papers, scratching out signatures with one hand while the other continued to scratch that band along his neck. The heavenly sensation cut through everything else, all the panic and dread, and Sena didn't know what to do with this kindness, except to lean into it, and try not to think what it meant. If this was what his master chose to do to him, he was just as helpless to object as he would've been if Hiruma were strangling him instead.

The sounds above him kept him updated on Hiruma's progress. The pen clicked across the papers, and then there was a squeaky whir, as Hiruma fed his forms into a slot in the kiosk. "This shit is so automated now," he muttered, and pulled out his credit card. "What a cash grab."

Sena winced, though he knew it was silly. If there was a fee, it would be taken out of him, one way or another, but surely it was the least of the sins he had to pay for. 

The hand had disappeared from the back of his neck, and with it, this small reprieve. Sena readied himself for what was next. He wasn't sure if he should crawl, now that his legs weren't needed for football, but Hiruma solved that dilemma by pulling him to his feet. 

"Still these fucking cuffs," Hiruma said, and looked around at the empty room. "Never mind, I'll pick them at home." 

Sena had a weird impulse to object—it seemed like a bad idea to steal something from a police station, even handcuffs—and then nearly broke into hysterical laughter. Was he really in a position to worry about that right now? 

No one came after them when they stepped outside, anyway. It was already fully dark—Sena must have been in that cell for hours. The parking lot was mostly empty, lit by the occasional lamp post, and he managed to keep it together until they got to the car, where Hiruma leaned him against the side of it like luggage, face forward. Sena had the wild thought that his punishment was going to start here, in the parking lot outside the police station, and watched distantly through the window as Hiruma got in the driver's seat, and dug around in the ashtray for a bobby pin, then gave it a sharp bend.

From there, it was about ten seconds' work to click the cuffs free. Hiruma spent longer than that tsking over the state of Sena's wrists, turning them over in his hands while Sena struggled to hold himself still, against the cool press of metal on his belly, glass on his cheek. 

"You've been fighting these." 

"Sorry," said Sena automatically, waiting to see if Hiruma would put them back on him. But he simply clicked them closed on empty air, and opened the door.

Twirling one cuff around his finger, he waited for Sena to get in and buckle up. Only when Sena was secured did he say, casually, "So why'd you run?"

Trapped, Sena shrank into his seat, but he couldn't shrink far enough. "I'm sorry. I... I know there's no excuse, master. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not asking for an excuse, I'm asking why."

There was nothing Sena could say to make this better, he knew that, but his master was asking, and so he kept blurting out things, "I'm sorry, I should never have... I should have accepted my punishment. I just, I-I didn't want to die..."

Hiruma nodded, like it confirmed something for him. He gave the cuff an extra spin, until the second one flung around on its chain and landed neatly on top of its mate. "If I thought I could shave one millisecond off your time with death threats, I'd be holding a fucking gun to your head right now. But your personal trainer doesn't think so."

"My personal...?" 

Hiruma raised an eyebrow as he shut Sena in with the door, and Sena flushed in realization. He remembered his last training session with Shin, how proudly he was talking about meeting Shin at the finals. What had he been thinking? They'd never have that rematch. Sena had been stupid to ever think otherwise.

"He thinks I should tell you I'm not going to kill you," Hiruma continued, reappearing on the driver's side. "So, the jig is up. I'm not going to fucking kill you."

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Sena nodded somberly. If there was any chance his failure would have earned him a quick death, that was surely off the table now. Not only had he ruined his master's chances at the Christmas Bowl, he'd done the unforgivable afterwards: he'd tried to run away. If nothing else, Hiruma would want to set an example for the others. Of course Hiruma wouldn't kill him now; it could be a long time before he received that mercy.

Something of his thoughts must be showing on his face, because Hiruma squinted at him, instead of at the road. "I can't keep picking you up from the fucking cops like this. Are we clear, shrimp? No killing."

"No killing," Sena agreed, and couldn't help but add, "yet."

Hiruma sighed and reached into his jacket. "Ever." He couldn't seem to find what he was looking for, and took both hands off the wheel to dig for it. When he came up with a slip of paper, Sena took it hastily, before they crashed. 

"You can read, right? Here's how much Bando offered for you."

Sena's eyes widened, and he took in all the digits a second time. For him?

"And they're out to make a fucking profit, that's just wholesale. You think someone's going to throw away that kind of money? No one's killing you."

Carefully, as if afraid to smudge the ink on it, Sena folded the note back up just the way he'd gotten it. "I... I understand, master."

"What do you understand?"

"You'll sell me." Because he'd failed. 

"And lose my only shot at the Christmas Bowl? You're kidding."

Sena jerked up straight, against the protests of his sore muscles, and nearly knocked his head into the car's frame. "But I thought... we were already out. Because... because I failed."

"Now, why does everyone think I'll let the fucking rules stop me? We're still going. Is that what this is about?" The car swerved abruptly, as they took the highway exit. "Nothing's changed. You're still running for me, all the way to the end."

As the car slowed to local roads, Sena realized that the radio had been on this whole time, playing something soft and instrumental, lost under the roar of the highway. Some of the life seemed to be flooding back into him, like a limb that was asleep, starting to tingle, except the pins and needles prickled all over. 

He hadn't messed things up irrecoverably. His master had a plan for the Christmas Bowl. 

In that light, it was almost believable that he wasn't going to be killed, wasn't going to be sold. He clutched the paper in his fingers, and really thought it through.

He wasn't going to be sold, because they still had a shot at the tournament, and Hiruma still needed him. 

But the reason he wasn't going to be killed was because it didn't make sense anymore. Hiruma had found him when he was worthless, a step from the chopping block, and trained him up, made him something valuable, something that you wouldn't just throw away on a whim. 

And Sena had returned that favor by being disobedient, by running away. 

"Thank you," Sena said, and received a surprised snort. Hiruma hadn't been expecting that. "I-if you'll let me, I'll keep playing for you. I won't let you down again, I promise. I'll—" he looked out the window, hoping that would make it easier to say, "—whatever punishment you want to give me, I won't fight it, I know I deserve it." In a detached sort of way, he noticed that the passing streets looked oddly familiar. The vendors, their wares. The chestnut roaster. 

"I don't know," Hiruma said, pulling the car to a stop. "You already ran from me once. How do I know you're really going to take your punishment obediently now, and not complain about it?"

Sena flinched; he deserved that. He opened his mouth to promise, but he realized that was the point. That was why running away was so unforgivable: if your master couldn't trust you not to run, they couldn't trust you for anything. 

Still, he shivered to imagine what punishment Hiruma could possibly have in mind, that he'd think Sena would complain. Sena had gotten in the car ready to die, ready to suffer. But he'd already seen Hiruma's imagination on the football field. He knew better than to underestimate it now.

Without warning, Hiruma slammed his car horn, a sudden, sharp honk that made Sena jump in his seat, and half the people outside turn to look. Under the street lights, Sena spotted the woman just as she spotted them—the police officer from earlier, out of uniform now, but still on her roller blades. 

Waving cheerfully, she skated over, and leaned into the window as Hiruma rolled it down. "You got him! Sena, I'm glad you're okay. You were so brave today—"

"Your handcuffs?" Hiruma interrupted, holding up the cuffs he'd taken from Sena's wrists.

"My partner's," she said, but took them. "That idiot! He's supposed to take them off when he drops you in holding! Sorry, Sena, that must have been really uncomfortable for you."

"I-it's no problem," said Sena nervously, "officer."

"I'm not on duty right now, call me Suzuna! And you!" she turned back to Hiruma. "That was really irresponsible, to let him go wandering around like that. Do you have any idea how much trouble slaves can get into, on their own? They can't defend themselves! You're lucky we found him!"

Sena expected Hiruma to snap back at the scolding. Instead, he only smirked. "But he wasn't alone, was he?" and the floor seemed to drop out from under Sena's feet. 

He had completely forgotten about Juumonji, who had risked everything to help him. Now Hiruma was going to find out, was going to _do something_ to Juumonji, and it was all Sena's fault, for dragging the other man into this.

Suzuna seemed to notice Sena's reaction, and leaned back from the window, suspicious. "No, he wasn't alone. And I'm sure you already know who was with him."

"Of course I know," said Hiruma. "But enough of that, let's get to it."

"Yeah!" Suzuna said, instantly cheered, and pushed off from the car, motioning over her shoulder as she glided away. "This way, follow me!"

As Hiruma started the engine, Sena wet his dry lips and said quietly, desperately, "Please don't hurt him. It's not his fault."

"You and that fucking eyebrows," said Hiruma, incomprehensibly. And then: "I can't do anything to him, it's not like he's my slave."

Sena let out a breath of relief, and let his head fall against the window. 

When his breathing had evened out, he said, "You... you didn't have to do that, master. I-I'll accept whatever punishment you give me, you don't have to bring anyone else into it."

"No complaints?"

"I won't complain, master."

"I know that," Hiruma grinned, pulling up next to a grassy field. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

When they got out, Suzuna was already skating in figure-eights, one loop around them, the other around a tall man with a goatee, who stood with one foot on the curb, holding a football in the air, precisely angled under the nearest street lamp so his profile was lit from behind. He waited until they both got out before executing a flamboyant dance move, one that involved kicking his leg impossibly high, and passing the football under it, over it, and then around behind his back. 

Suzuna looked exasperated as she came to a stop, but added, with a wave of her hands, "And this is my brother, Taki Natsuhiko. He's ready for whatever you've got!"

Bewildered, Sena looked up at Hiruma, who beamed and pointed right back at him. "This fucking shrimp has been through the wringer today. And he's still going to beat the hell out of you. Don't come crying for a second chance when you lose!"

Sena felt like he'd just been dropped in another dimension—and the first dimension had been an airless vacuum, slowly squeezing the life out of him—but even disoriented as he was, he wasn't about to disagree with his master. Trying to turn his head around to his new task, he studied his opponent carefully. Taki was big, but he didn't look particularly focused, and all of a sudden, Sena found himself with a lot to prove.

Out of nowhere, Hiruma brandished a helmet and pads, and threw them at him. "It's fucking tryouts time!"

***

Something about playing football made Sena feel calmer, even if it was just repeatedly running at Taki and trying to tackle the guy before he could make a catch. For one thing, it made Sena all the more grateful that he normally didn't have to play _against_ Hiruma's passes. For another, it felt... normal. It was one thing to be told he still had value, another to physically feel it in his body, to ask it to run for him again, to serve its purpose, his master's purpose.

Even pulling up at the dark house afterwards, knowing that time was ticking down to his punishment, didn't drag him back into the same pits of terror he'd been wallowing in earlier. He had to trust Hiruma, take him for his word, that it would only be punishment, not permanent. That he'd come through the other side, and be back on the field again when he recovered from it.

He went through the motions of greeting the others, avoiding looking Juumonji in the eye. When Monta asked where he'd been, Hiruma just cut in and said, "Recruiting," which set the two of them off on a well-hashed argument about whether or not they were out of the tournament for good, and allowed Sena to sneak away. He'd missed dinner, but there were leftovers. Afterwards, he lightly bandaged his wrists, and even got ready for bed. 

It was only when he saw Hiruma disappear into Musashi's room and return with a length of chain, that Sena feel some of his calm slip. 

It was on shaky legs that he followed his master into the bedroom, where he sat down on the bed, stretched out his leg, and let Hiruma to lock a leather cuff around his ankle, and chain it to the footboard. 

The punishment was going to be so bad, that he thought Sena would try to make a break for it, even though he'd just promised he'd obey. 

Sena resolved to do better than that that. 

Whatever it was, he would take it. He would be good. He would earn his master's trust again.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, before Hiruma suddenly chuckled. "You're still fucking waiting for it, aren't you?"

"Master?" Sena looked up, the tension only growing within him.

"This is your punishment." Hiruma gave the chain a jangle. "I can't have you running away again. You're going to be chained at night, and any time I'm not personally there to watch you. No more going out on your own. No more training with Shin. You have to piss in the middle of the night? You fucking hold it. Think you can live with that?"

"Master, please..." Sena tried to stop it, he really did, but it was suddenly too much to hold back. The tears pricked at his eyes, hot and wet, and when the first of them started rolling down his face, he swiped them away, only to find more rushing to replace them, until he was helplessly sobbing. "Please... please don't do this," he barely managed to get out.

"You think that's too harsh?" said Hiruma. Sena couldn't see his expression, couldn't see anything through his hands, but he could tell it was flat and dangerous, just like his tone.

"I-I failed you. I betrayed you. This can't be the only punishment. I-if you don't want to do it yourself, you can, you can rent me out, get some of your money back. You can order me to punish myself. I've seen... I know a lot of ways, I wouldn't damage your property, I could..."

"Hey, shrimp," said his master sharply, "No complaints, remember? Stop."

Sena obeyed as well as he could, silencing himself with his arms, biting at them to hold back the sobs, or at least shake with them silently, rather than letting them out.

"You said it yourself, you'll take whatever I decide, no complaining. Or are you trying to tell me what I can and can't do with my own fucking slave?"

"N-no, master. But I deserve—"

"I decide what you fucking deserve. You know why it's not worse than this? Because—" A tissue appeared in his face, and Sena took it, feeling pathetic. "Because you did the right thing, you fucking shrimp."

The shock silenced him, where all his other attempts had failed. He couldn't have heard that right.

"If you think I'm going to kill you, or anyone is going to kill you, you fucking run. Punish you for wanting to live? I've never heard such bullshit." 

"But..." Sena scrubbed at his eyes. "I'm supposed to obey, I..."

"Then fucking obey." Hiruma replaced his tissue with a new one, and then stayed beside him, touching him again on the back of his neck. Two fingers' worth of human contact, and Sena felt like it was the only thing left in the world to ground him. "I brought you here to play football. I've never seen you disobey that yet."

Once Sena had cried himself out, he found that he was alone, surrounded by tissues. Feeling as if the last of his strength had seeped out of him, he sank back limply into bed.

The chain was long enough that he could bend his leg and touch the cuff on his ankle, trace the soft leather with his fingertips. It wasn't what he deserved, but it was what he was given. With that passing thought, he fell asleep within seconds.


	43. Trust or dare

"I don't need them," Musashi found himself saying that night, when Hiruma started to unwind the chains from the bedposts.

Hiruma was doing that thing again, where he unilaterally ruled it was "fucking late enough", and time to sleep. Even back before all this, it used to bug Musashi to no end, how Hiruma always went off and decided things on his own. These days Musashi actually found it a little comforting, to have decisions made for him, which was why he only hated it even more. 

Part of him wanted to drop everything and heed the unspoken order: lie down on the bed, hold out his arms and legs for the cuffs, shut off just because Hiruma signaled it was time. Perversely, it made him grip his pencil harder, and stare more intently at the papers under his hands. For a while, he could see nothing, entirely concentrated on listening for an objection, a reprimand. Then he remembered it wasn't really Hiruma he was listening for, and gradually the blueprints he'd been working on came back into focus. A few minutes more, and he was even able to tweak a couple lines. That was progress, right?

"Seriously," he said, picturing the skeptical look Hiruma was wearing. "I have to grow out of them one of these days."

"Suit yourself." There came a clatter of chain, as Hiruma dropped the cuff back behind the mattress, and the subject with it. He must have been tired, to give in so easily. It really was getting late. 

Musashi's old habits were coming back to him steadily, like getting caught up in his work, and losing track of time. It was probably a blessing that Hiruma had pointed out the late hour, and done so without saying a word. 

But sensible as it would be, to call it for the night, he just couldn't do it, not now that Hiruma had suggested it. Not yet. Doggedly, he kept working at the blueprint, moving his ruler aimlessly back and forth, though whether the act of rebellion was for Hiruma's benefit, or for his own, he couldn't have said.

Sometimes coming up against his limits was a sudden shock, like running face-first into a glass wall. Like at the stadium that day. He'd been so prideful, insisting that he was fine, he was ready to play. And just the sight of brown robes had scattered his nerves, like a fallen box of nails, right when his team had been counting on him. 

It wasn't like him. 

It was _just_ like him, these days. 

Invisible landmines left buried by someone miles away, who had no power over him anymore, except what he did to himself, by being too weak to move on.

That was why he had to fight back where he could. Go a night without the security blanket of his cuffs. Ignore "suggestions". Bit by bit, he'd reclaim the war zone of his mind, he'd pick up the pieces, he'd rebuild. He had to.

Eventually, when he realized that was a load-bearing wall he'd erased, he couldn't put it off any longer. Telling himself his point had been made, he rolled up the blueprints, and slid them into their tube. Hiruma was sprawled in bed with his laptop, chin propped up on a palm. He hadn't said a word, and Musashi left without telling him. Such small rebellions, could he really count them as victories?

The house was dark and silent; everyone else was probably sleeping already. On his way to the bathroom, he found himself staring uneasily at Sena and Monta's door—well, just Sena's, for the night. Hiruma wouldn't want him to interfere, he told himself, so of course he had to force himself to give it a knock.

"Sena?"

No response.

"You okay in there?"

Musashi knew he scared Sena—everyone did, but he especially hadn't made a great first impression. Barging in would hardly be welcome, especially not while Sena was sleeping. Hopefully he was sleeping. 

Still, as he washed the pencil lead from the heels of his palms, he couldn't shake the disquieting feeling that he was just trying to stay in his lane, as had been ingrained him. As he brushed his teeth, he wondered if he could even tell the difference, between who he was, and who he'd been made to be. 

When he got back to his room, it was that residual shame that made him lean against the doorway, rather than getting into bed. 

Hiruma was still sprawled out with the computer, facing away from him. That gave him a clear eyeful of how Hiruma's back stiffened, when he said, "What if we'd gone with a kick instead?" 

"What are you talking about, fucking old man?" But it was obvious Hiruma had gotten it instantly. He'd even stopped typing.

"If we'd kicked, and I'd failed, would it be me you were punishing instead?" 

"Don't. Fucking go there."

Now Musashi couldn't _not_ go there. A few strides took him up to the bed, where Hiruma was refusing to meet his gaze. "What did you do to him? I saw you take that chain from my closet. Did you beat him with it? Did you string him up by his wrists, and leave him there—" A sudden sense memory choked the words from his throat—his hands bound over his head, slowly going numb, holding up the whole shoulder-popping weight of him. Being terrified for days after, that he'd lost the use of his hands for good, a fear that didn't go away the second time it happened, or the third, always convinced that this was the time that Agon had finally taken it too far, that the feeling would never come back into them again. 

A touch on his arm sent him flinching backwards, and he realized he'd been rubbing his wrists compulsively. Hiruma had seen it. But he couldn't put even an ounce of gentleness into his voice as he said, "Don't you worry about that, you fucking old man. Just focus on getting better, so it won't come to this again."

Musashi was warped, he knew that. His gauge was broken, his level was skewed. There were things that Agon had done that Hiruma wasn't capable of, physically—he didn't have the strength, or the dexterity, or the, the tools, those _tools_. And then there were things that he'd sworn never to do. For everything else? There was a line between acceptable and not, Musashi remembered that much, he just didn't remember where it lay. 

He'd listened, when Hiruma had disappeared with Sena, and a length of chain. He'd told himself he'd intervene if he heard... something. He thought maybe he heard a sob, but he might have just imagined it. And he hadn't intervened. 

Now, he pointed at the door and said, "Get out of my room."

Hiruma narrowed his eyes. " _Your_ room?"

"Yes, _my_ room. Don't start with technicalities. I built this house, with my own two hands, and I say this room is mine. So get the hell out."

At first it looked like Hiruma wasn't going to move. Then he slunk out of bed like a cat, all but hissing. "Out of all the shit I've had to deal with today," he said, "I can't fucking believe I have to shovel yours too." Snatching up his laptop, he stormed out, and slammed the door behind him. 

Only once Musashi had calmed down did he realize—he hadn't heard the sound of Hiruma locking it. 

Was a sign of trust? Or a dare to lose control, and prove himself unworthy of it?

Either way, he killed the lights, and lay back uneasily on the bed, a hand snaking under his pillow for support. 

It wasn't the first time he'd slept unchained, but he'd always had the lock on the door. He had to be able to accomplish this much, though. He had to get back out into the world someday.

And if his hand grasped for the nearest chain, if pulling it taut gave him some measure of comfort, then that was a secret best kept by the pillow and the bedpost behind it.

***

Sena woke with a jerk of his legs, as if they were still trying to escape something in his dream. He tried to settle down, so as not to wake Monta, but he was at once both pumped full of adrenaline and exhausted all over. His muscles were already getting their day-after ache from the game, and from... the rest of it. 

Half hoping that had all been a dream too, he pulled the covers off his leg, but the ankle cuff was still there, a mark of his shame and failure. The lock that secured it was tiny, and he felt sure that the fine curve of the shackle could be snapped, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he was a disobedient slave, who couldn't be trusted, not even just to stay put. 

Quietly, he pulled the covers back over himself. How was he going to explain this? He turned to check that Monta was still asleep—only to find not Monta beside him after all, but what was unmistakably the side of Hiruma's head: blond spikes, silver earrings, and all. 

Slapping his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out, he hastily lay back down, and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, heart hammering in his chest. What did it mean, that his master was in bed with him? A further sign of distrust, that Sena couldn't even be allowed to spend the night unsupervised? Or... was Hiruma expecting some other service from him, to make up for his unspeakably terrible behavior yesterday? Something about being chained to a bed with his master felt so sickeningly familiar, and seemed to make his thoughts stick. Hiruma had never shown interest in him before, not in that way, but you didn't need to be attracted to a body to make use of it, he'd learned that well enough. 

With the slightest possible movements, Sena eased himself up to take another look. Hiruma had fallen asleep on top of the covers, half curled around his laptop beside him, a few fingertips still resting on its lid. His head was turned away, his face slack in profile, but for some reason it didn't make his features any less sharp. His mouth fell open slightly, allowing his bottom fangs to peek through, almost gargoyle-like, and there was a crease to his forehead that suggested that he was plotting something, even in his sleep. 

Sena slid his gaze back up to the ceiling, mind racing. He had a lot to make up for. He should at least make an effort, to show willing. But he shouldn't wake his master. The best thing would be to just lie there patiently and make himself available, for whatever Hiruma wanted, whenever. 

But it was an awful lot he had to make up for.

Carefully, Sena got onto his elbows, and inched his way closer to Hiruma's body. Just to look, he told himself. Just to come up with a plan. 

Hiruma's chest was moving up and down evenly, a reassuring timer, giving Sena room to pause and think. Hiruma's legs were still wrapped in jeans, which made it hard to tell if he was... well, hard, but chances were good, right? One of his hands was lying on his stomach, thumb hooked over the buckle of his belt. Sena studied this tableau with a breathless intensity. Then he realized Hiruma's breathing had changed too.

Nervously, he looked up, and saw that Hiruma's eyes had cracked open, and his mouth had closed. Otherwise, he hadn't moved. 

It was now or never. Slowly, Sena lowered his face, planting a kiss to the back of Hiruma's hand, right above the knuckles, where a blue vein branched into two. The hand was slack under his lips, not clenched, which he took for a good sign. Hiruma didn't say anything, or react in any way, which he took for a neutral one. 

He didn't dare look up again at Hiruma's expression, and so he looked the other way instead, toward Hiruma's groin, and moved to land his next kiss there. 

Before he could get anywhere, the hand he'd kissed snapped upward, and gripped him by the jaw. Held in place, Sena's eyes darted up to the corners of their sockets, where he could just see that Hiruma was frowning now. A bad sign. A very bad sign. 

Sena couldn't say anything without moving his jaw, and didn't know what to say, besides. He focused on relaxing his arms and torso, so he wouldn't put up any resistance, whichever way his master wanted to position him.

But his master didn't move. Neither of them did. 

After a beat, Hiruma said, in a patient voice, "What are you here for?"

Like a spell had been broken, Sena flushed, hot with humiliation and relief all at once. He tried to sit up a little, and the hand released him. "To play football, master. I'm sorry, master."

The frown on Hiruma's face softened, and then was covered, as he yawned. "When Musashi first came back—" Then Hiruma seemed to shake the thought off. "Here, give me your cuff."

A direct order. Sena sat up so he could swivel his ankle around, finding just enough slack to place it into Hiruma's lap. It was a generous length of chain; he hadn't been caught by its limits once all night, even when he'd been running in his dreams. 

Hiruma pulled a key out of his pocket, rolling his hips slightly to get access. The motion drew Sena's gaze—the pocket was inches from the spot Sena had tried to kiss—and Hiruma gave him a sardonic smirk, as if reading the direction of his thoughts. "You should have gone for this, not my dick."

"N-no, master," Sena shook his head wildly, "I wouldn't!" He hadn't known it was there, and even if he had, he had no intention of doing _anything_ without his master's explicit permission. Not after how badly he'd screwed up. Even if Hiruma had left the key in Sena's pocket instead, he would have carried it obediently, untouched, until Hiruma came to let him out. "I won't ever try to run again. I swear. I-I know you don't believe me..."

"I believe you won't." Hiruma opened the lock, and slipped it back into the same pocket. When Sena didn't make a move to undo the cuff, he did it, in a single swift motion. "Not today, anyway. Go on, get out."

It felt like a test. Sena pulled his ankle back, hugged his knee to his chest, but didn't make a move to get off the bed. "Y-you said I need to be restrained, unless you're there—"

"I'm not going to watch you take a piss." Hiruma wound the chain in neat coils around his palm. "That fucking fatty's probably up, he never stopped keeping temple time. Go make us some breakfast, if he hasn't already."

"Oh, okay, yes! Yes, master." Eager to be useful, Sena scrambled off the bed, gathered his things, and hurried out of the room. 

It was only a few steps to the the bathroom, but in the time it took him to get there, the back door slid open and shut. In the space between one step and the next, Juumonji abruptly appeared right in front of him.

"I got it," he said.

"You got what?" said Sena, startled.

Incredulous, Juumonji looked around, and then made a cutting motion into his hand. " _I got it._ When do you want to do this?"

Sena dropped his toothbrush. When he bent down to grab it, his hand was shaking. "I-I don't want it anymore," he said to the ground.

"I haven't seen him all day." Juumonji continued. "We could do it now, before he gets back."

Involuntarily, Sena glanced back at his door, as if Hiruma were watching them through it, and then swiveled his gaze away. "Please... just get rid of it before you get in trouble."

"What did he do to you?" said Juumonji slowly. 

"Juumonji, please."

"Look at me." 

Unwillingly, Sena stood, and looked up. Juumonji seemed to be studying his face, as if looking for a bruise, a cut. "He threatened you?"

"N-no."

"He hurt you."

"No! I just... I was wrong, I shouldn't have gotten you involved. I'm so glad you're okay, just don't... do anything risky." Sena made for the bathroom door, but Juumonji cut in front of him, blocking his way.

"Risk has nothing to do with it. I won't stand for it, someone mistreating his slaves, because he thinks they're lesser." Without looking, he grabbed the doorknob behind him and pushed the door open for Sena. 

"You remember that, if he threatens you again."

***

Sena watched anxiously, as Hiruma ate his oatmeal. It wasn't the first time Sena had taken his turn in the kitchen, but it felt a little different when he was serving his master, trying to get back into his good graces. He had half a mind to go kneel down next to Hiruma while he ate, but instead he just sat in his seat and fidgeted. 

Spoon halfway to his mouth, Hiruma paused, and shot a glance at Sena and his bouncing knee. Hiruma didn't even need to say anything; Sena knew by now what that meant. He picked up his own spoon and ate. 

He was just finishing his bowl when Monta came running from down the hall. "Sena, there you are! You doing any better?"

"Better?" Sena said blankly.

"You know, from being sick? That's why I slept out in the RV, because you might be contagious? You really okay?"

"Oh... ah, yeah, sick! I'm better." Unless he was supposed to keep up the pretense? He glanced at Hiruma, who was calmly sipping his coffee, and no help. "Or... am I better? It's hard to say. You know, I think I just overdid it yesterday."

"Then come relax with us! We're gonna watch some old matches, Musashi's getting it set up now. Probably some Seibu-Oujou games, to get hyped for finals. You in?" 

Sena looked at Hiruma again, hoping from some instruction. "I-I should probably do some training," he guessed.

"What kind of training are you going to do, with your fucking muscles torn to hell?" Hiruma got up with his laptop and coffee, and looked expectant.

The three of them made their way to Musashi's room, where Kurita was already sitting on the bed, hugging a couple pillows to his chest. "Sena! Hiruma!" he cried, and threw up his arms, sending the pillows scattering. "You're here!" 

Musashi looked up from where he was setting up the TV. He gave Sena a sympathetic, if searching, look, and then gave Hiruma a disapproving one. 

"Did I say you could come back?" he said. "This is my room, remember?"

Hiruma put a hand on Sena's head, and Sena obligingly lowered it. "And this is my slave. You want him here or not?"

Musashi's nostrils flared. "I swear, if nothing else works to get me out there, the sheer annoyance of living with you might just do it."

"That's the spirit." 

"M-master," said Sena nervously, "I don't need to..."

"Relax, I got shit to do. You can pretend I'm not even here, that work for you, fucking old man?"

"When has that ever worked for me," Musashi sighed, but Hiruma was already pushing in. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, reclining against Kurita's side with an easy familiarity. He'd positioned himself pointedly facing away from the rest of them, toward the closet. Cracking open his laptop, he began to jab at the keys, apparently intent on ignoring them completely. 

"You want a pillow, Hiruma?" said Kurita, who was starting to regather his stash. Hiruma waved silently, and that was that. 

Sena supposed he was grateful he didn't have to be chained down here, in front of everyone else. He was careful to position himself close to his master, in line of sight if he turned. Monta jumped into bed with them, Musashi took a nearby chair, and the game was on. 

It was a match from last year, and Shin was noticeably absent. There was no Riku either, but on offense after offense, the Seibu Wild Gunmen were having free run with their passes. 

"So who do you think is going to win this weekend?" Monta said, as the game drew to a one-sided close. "Seibu or Oujou?" 

"They're both really good," Kurita mused. "Oujou has a really strong line, with that Ootawara..."

"Takami is their weak point," Hiruma cut in suddenly. "He doesn't match up to the fucking eyebrows at all."

"I thought you weren't watching," said Musashi.

"Seen it already."

"I don't think he's weak," said Monta. "He just needs an expert receiver to pass to! I bet they'd do a lot better with me on their team."

"Monta!" Sena gasped. That sounded dangerously like he wanted to _leave_. Then he remembered he was in no position to throw stones.

"Next game?" said Musashi suggested, and got up for the remote.

***

Hiruma insisted that they all go to finals, and the awards ceremony afterwards. What's more, he had them all run to it, though there were some grumblings of why were they still training, when the tournament was over for them, and Hiruma had never explained anything otherwise.

It didn't matter to Sena—if Hiruma said train, he would make training his sole mission in life. It had been several weeks since he'd run with the rest of the team like this, and what a difference his sessions with Shin had made. Where he would have been out of breath and falling behind within a few blocks, today he was keeping up without much trouble, and even felt like he could have a chat with Shin at the same time—not that Shin was there, of course. 

He even found himself feeling a little guilty that he was no longer lagging behind the group, to keep Yukimitsu company, but as the sidewalks dragged on, he was surprised to see Yukimitsu sticking determinedly right next to him. Sena wasn't the only one who had been working hard. Maybe Shin should train the whole team some time? But no, he had his own practice to do.

A block from the stadium, Shin appeared, as if summoned by his thoughts. He was already in his gear, and seemed to be jogging to warm up. When he saw them, he immediately veered his course, and Sena found himself scrambling deeper into the group, shifting behind Monta for a shield. Come to think of it, he probably could have picked someone larger to hide behind, literally anyone else on the team, but it was too late to move now, without breaking cover.

"Monta, help!" he said. "Shin's coming this way, I can't talk to him!"

"What?" Monta tried to look around, and Sena had to duck to stay behind him. "Shin? Why can't you talk to him?" 

Sena didn't know how to answer that with the whole team running alongside them right there. "Is he still looking?"

"No, he turned around," said Monta. "He's jogging away, who knows why? Couldn't be you acting a weirdo?"

Embarrassed, Sena eased back to his previous position. The run was starting to catch up with him, and he found himself tiring quickly now; by the time they reached the stadium, he had slowed to the very back of the group. 

At their seats, Monta barely waited for Sena to sit down before he demanded, "So why aren't you talking to Shin?" 

He should've known Monta, expert receiver, wouldn't let this drop. 

"I'm being... punished," said Sena quietly, hoping the noise of the crowd would drown out their conversation. Monta's eyes narrowed at the word "punished", so Sena rushed to continue. "I did something bad, Monta. Really bad. I can't screw up any more."

"But isn't Shin helping you train? Why would Hiruma punish you by cutting you off?"

"I... Oh, is the game starting?" said Sena, though it wasn't really. Luckily Monta took the hint and turned to talk to Kurita on his other side instead. 

Sena didn't have an answer for him—it seemed so obvious that he didn't even have to think about it, and in fact he never had. 

Training with Shin was a privilege, so taking it away was an obvious punishment, the way chaining a runaway slave hardly was, especially when Hiruma didn't even enforce it that strictly, mostly only locking him up at night, when he would've been sleeping anyway. 

Hiruma had never said one way or another whether Sena was still allowed to talk to Shin, but he didn't deserve it anyway. Maybe he had gotten distracted, training with Shin. Maybe he had been focusing too much on Shin, rather than the training, and that was why he'd failed, right when his master had been counting on him.

As he watched the two teams gather on the field, his eyes sought out Shin's jersey, and then tore away from it. From now on, there was only one thing that mattered. He would eat, breathe, live for nothing else, as a slave should. As he should have been doing all along.


	44. You can't even sing

It was Shin's habit to spend those crucial hours leading up to an important match in quiet, meditative preparations. Light stretches, visualization exercises, things of that nature, to warm up his muscles and get him into the right mindset. 

That was probably why he was extra startled when an angry shriek pierced the locker room. All around him, his teammates stopped what they were doing, dropped weights and pads, or just turned towards the source of that sound. Coach Miracle Ito stormed in, a much taller figure in tow. Despite the glaring height difference, Miracle had a handful of the figure's button-up shirt, and was all but dragging him along.

"You want to be with these... these brutes so badly? Fine!" Miracle was screaming, actually screaming. Shin hadn't even known the man's emotional register was capable of such extremes. "Why don't you take a good look, and remind yourself what kind of filthy hell I rescued you from?" 

The figure allowed himself to be shoved to his knees, for there was no way Miracle could have manhandled him into the position otherwise. It was only when Miracle turned and stormed back out that Shin finally got a good look. 

Sakuraba. 

Seeing him here was no less jarring than it had been in the park, though this had once been his natural setting. He looked much the same as he had that morning weeks ago, except his hair was raggedly shorn, tufts and long patches sticking out in odd directions, like a worn toothbrush. Normally, Shin wouldn't even have noticed, except there was blood on his scalp too, a shock of red against the rest of his pale coloring, starkly revealed by the hair that no longer covered it. As it began to trickle down his temple, drawing a line down the front of his ear, he made no move to wipe it off.

Shin took the distance in several large strides, climbing over the benches in the way, but Takami still beat him to it—rushed over, gingerly touched the uneven fuzz, as if it might scald, and shook his head in disbelief. "My god, Sakuraba. What happened to you?"

"I was dumb," Sakuraba replied, slumping off his knees, so he could rest his weight against one plaster wall. "I was so, so dumb." From his corner, he peeked around the rest of the room, seemed to see the dozens of eyes staring at him, and quickly looked back down.

"Don't just stand around gawking," Takami snapped, waving a hand imperiously behind him. "Get dressed, or get out."

Shin assumed he wasn't included in that order, simply because he didn't want to be. He squatted down next to Sakuraba to give him closer examination. The way he sagged against the wall made it look like there was no strength left him at all, but he was no thinner than he'd been a few weeks ago, and bore no visible injuries, besides the obvious. 

"He was going to have me perform today, you know?" Sakuraba drew one of his knees up after the other, and rested his forehead on the shelf they made. This put his haircut, such as it was, directly in their faces. It looked even worse up close. At least the bleeding had slowed. "Right here. In the middle of the stadium."

"At the closing ceremonies?" Shin guessed, and Sakuraba nodded miserably into his knees.

"I was supposed to sing something."

"You can't even sing," said Takami bluntly.

"I can't even sing!" Sakuraba agreed, barking out a hysterical laugh that muffled into his legs. "It's all lip sync and autotune. I just couldn't stand it. Sometimes it's okay. He's always telling me I have a talent for, you know. Better to be good at _something_ , instead of being a failure at football. But the idea of getting up in front of all these people, people I used to train with, and compete with, and, and show them what I'm doing now? I just... I lost it."

"So he cut you?" Shin said.

That got Sakuraba to look up at least, even if it was only to shoot Shin a look of incredulity, like the comment had been unfathomably stupid. It was a nostalgic look. "No, Shin, I cut myself. I wasn't thinking. I was trimming my bangs, and then I just started hacking away at it, all of it. I was only thinking about today, the ceremonies, the singing, but I have _clients_ booked, I... I wasn't thinking at all! He's never laid a hand on me. He's never hurt me, I got stupid. What if he—"

"Calm down," said Takami. Sometime in all the ranting, his hand had snuck onto Sakuraba's hunched shoulder, and was rubbing it, steadily, up and down. It was hard to tell if it was working. Sakuraba was still breathing unsteadily, and seemed barely able to contain his frantic rambling, as if he hadn't had a chance to let it all out in ages, and now the dam was breaking. "What's done is done, just stay calm now."

Swallowing what he was about to say, Sakuraba just laughed again, shakily this time. "So how bad is it?"

"Well... you're bleeding," said Takami, "but it might look worse than it is. Scalp cuts are always a scare. It's already starting to slow."

"He walked in on me while I was hacking away. I think I got startled? My hand slipped? Or maybe I just thought... He'd have to give up on me if I'd cut myself, right? I probably should have gone for the face." 

Takami's grip tightened on his shoulder, and Sakuraba clamped his jaw again. Kept it together for all of five seconds, before turning to Shin. "This is all your fault, you know that?"

Shin didn't wince, only nodded. He didn't understand the specifics, yet it lined up so precisely with his own thoughts, the self-recriminations he'd carried for the better part of a year, that he saw no need to question it. But Sakuraba continued, "I just couldn't stop thinking about it. That time I saw you, last week. No, a month ago, now, wasn't it? I have no idea when it was."

"You saw Sakuraba?" Takami turned to Shin, voice lowering dangerously. "And you didn't tell me?"

They weren't exactly speaking often these days, but Shin kept quiet about that too.

"Watching the two of you run off like that, after the bus. I just couldn't help but think you were running ahead of me, yet again. I've always been staring at your back, Shin. And now I'm stuck in place, singing, and entertaining, and, and _whoring_." His face twisted on the word. "It won't be long before I lose sight of it entirely. Where is he, anyway? That other runner? I didn't see him, before everyone... cleared out..."

At least that was a question that had an answer. Shin took refuge in facts. "That wasn't anyone from our team. That was Sena, from Deimon."

"You're training with someone from Deimon?" said Takami. "That running back? I should know these things."

"Does Miracle know? Never mind, of course you wouldn't do anything improper, Shin," Sakuraba gestured vaguely. "You wouldn't carve up your own head. You wouldn't flirt with whoever he told you to, lie down in whatever bed he dumped you on. You wouldn't even be in this situation."

"I was in exactly—" But Shin was interrupted by Miracle himself, who had appeared in the doorway again, lugging a big black bag with both hands.

"Who said you could talk to him?" he demanded. "Get away from him, both of you!" 

"Miracle..." said Sakuraba weakly, as Takami and Shin exchanged looks with equal sick helplessness. 

Slowly, they both backed away, as Miracle struggled to pull up a bench to the corner. 

When he sat on it, and took Sakuraba's head onto his lap, he immediately seemed to lose attention for anything or anyone else, stroking Sakuraba's hair like he could grow it back out with his touch. "Oh, you poor thing. I shouldn't have yelled at you, I lost my temper. But just look what you've done to yourself." 

With a handkerchief wet from a bottle of water, he wiped the blood from Sakuraba's face, and gently began to scrub at his scalp. "This doesn't look too bad. It'll heal. The hair, though..." 

Out next came a pair of scissors, larger than the ones from the sewing kit, but Shin still had a sudden flashback to Miracle's paper-dry hands, his look of concentration, hovering inches away. As Miracle snicked them in the air, aimlessly, like he couldn't even figure out where to begin, he seemed to have the same thought, muttering, "I'm always having to sew you boys back together, aren't I? Never you fret, just let me handle it. I'll have you looking your best again in no time."

Against his lap, Sakuraba gave a minute shudder, but didn't otherwise move. His eyes fell shut, as Miracle began to snip. 

"I'm going for my run," Shin said, unnecessarily, as no one so much as acknowledged his departure. He made a circuit inside the stadium, and then exited it, careful not to think about anything in particular. Quiet, meditative preparations, right? 

As he finished his exterior loop, heading back for the entrance, dodging pedestrians as another form of warm up, he spotted Deimon's team approaching, in their usual cluster. It looked like they'd run the entire way here, so they were still training, despite their defeat. 

Just a few days ago, he had approached Hiruma to intercede for Sena. He didn't know if it had done any good, but Sena was still running with them, at least.

Wasn't it strange, that he had done it for Sena, but he hadn't said a word to Miracle, on Sakuraba's behalf?

There had to be something he could do, he thought, as he made his way back inside. 

***

It wasn't like Sena was such an expert now, that he could read football teams just by watching them play. Still, he couldn't help but feel like something was off about the finals.

Kid and his team seemed so much tighter than usual, all the delicate machinery of their plays gliding together more smoothly somehow, with a single purpose. 

By contrast, Oujou just seemed off. It was hard to put his finger on it, but as the game dragged on, and the famous Oujou defense let through more and more goals, Sena felt his stomach twisting. 

He didn't know which team to root for, Riku and Mamori's team, or Shin's, but not too long ago, he had foolishly hoped to be playing this match himself, against Oujou, against Shin. Watching them fall to another team was painful for more reasons than one, and when they finally lost, Sena felt their disappointment almost like it was his own. 

Beside him, Hiruma got up and stretched. "Well, they played like shit," he said. "Don't train to beat that Oujou, you hear me, fucking team? You can bet they're not going to be so distracted at nationals."

"You're talking like you're still in for nationals," came Juri's voice, clear even over the crowd. Bando's manager was coming up the stairs, swimming against the current of spectators, all pushing past her down to ground level, for a bathroom break or a snack. 

"You better not be coming by with that fucking offer again," said Hiruma. Sena remembered that scrap of paper, with all the zeroes, and flushed. Was that really all for him? Self conscious, he sank a little deeper into his seat. 

"Just paying a social call," she said breezily. "Not like I have much of anyone else to chat with these days." She glanced over her shoulder, presumably toward where her team was sitting, but Sena looked in that direction and couldn't make them out—there weren't enough Spiders to form a solid patch of Bando red in the stands. "The new guy, Atsumi, is dedicated, but he's not much of a talker. Hey, Musashi, good to see you again! Koutarou was always asking about you, toward the end."

"Been away," said Musashi gruffly. 

"He noticed! Too bad your team isn't going to the Christmas Bowl after all. The two of you could have had your kicking battle there. That would have been a real treat for him."

She sounded cheerful enough about it, but Musashi took a careful tone, the same way he spoke to Sena sometimes, when Sena was scared, or miserable. "You haven't seen him since, have you?" 

Juri shrugged, a tiny motion. "He couldn't exactly leave a forwarding address."

"Why don't you just quit? There's nothing tying you to Bando but a paycheck."

She gave Musashi a patronizing smile. "That's just what Koutarou said to me. Never realized you two thought so much alike, did you?"

The two of them bantered a bit more, while the audience ebbed and flowed around them. When she had gone, Musashi finally got to his feet and went to stand with Hiruma, where he was still stretching against the railing. Quietly, maybe intending it for Hiruma's ears alone, he said, "If we win this by underhanded tactics, is it still winning?"

Hiruma only kicked him in the leg. "Don't ask questions with obvious answers, you fucking old man." But Sena couldn't find an answer in there at all.

A sharp trumpet blast announced the start of the closing ceremonies. A marching band circled the field, as people retook their seats, and when the last brassy notes had faded, President Nakamura of the tournament organizers took the stage. Sena vaguely remembered him from the opening ceremonies too, but he had been a ball of nerves back then, and couldn't have recalled more than tanned skin, a quarterback's build, all stuffed into a business suit. Now, Nakamura was still in the suit, but he looked harried, almost hunted, and seemed to shoot more than one glance in their direction. That was odd, right? 

"Before we call up our winners, I'll thank our generous sponsor, Jari Productions, for making this entire tournament possible. And as if that wasn't enough, they'll be putting on a special performance—oh? No performance? Hm..." He paused, listening to something in his earpiece. "We'll play some tracks from their upcoming album. Dropping in stores and online just in time for Christmas—"

As Nakamura motioned the winning teams to gather, music drifted from speakers that weren't necessarily suited to it, a crooning love song in a man's voice, that sounded strangely familiar. Sena couldn't place it, but Hiruma began to cackle after the first line. 

"Hey, fucking monkey, you can sing better than this, can't you?" he said inexplicably. 

"I don't sing!" said Monta, as indignant as if he'd been accused of dancing in a tutu. 

"Neither does this guy."

The Seibu team came galloping out first, to cheers, followed by Oujou's ranks, uniform as toy soldiers, and just as animated. Finally, in trickled the six members of the devastated Bando Spiders, led by Juri. Atsumi was at the end of the line again, picking at the webbing on his uniform like it didn't quite sit right on him.

"And now, we'll announce the prizes for our winners! Also graciously sponsored by Jari Productions—check your programs for a special promotion on their website. In third place, none other than the Bando Spiders! Come up, come up! Though I will say, you lads looked a lot different at the start of the tournament! Lose some weight? What's your secret?"

The track flipped to an upbeat pop song, accompanied by a prominent rumbling noise that seemed out of place in the background. As the Spiders climbed onto the stage, the rumbling only grew louder and louder—until it was obvious it wasn't part of the song at all. 

Trophy hovering mid-handover to Juri, Nakamura froze, and then jumped backwards, with impressive reflexes, as a gang of motorcycles burst through the stadium entrance, and zoomed right onto the field, cutting swerving paths across the grass, weaving between Seibu and Oujou's gathered lines, and spiraling around until one by one they came to a stop right in front of the stage. 

Habashira, easily distinctive by his long limbs, swung off his bike, and took off his helmet. He made no move to help the older man who had been riding behind him. 

In fact, each of Habashira's gang had brought someone on their motorcycle. As they all got off and formed ranks, Sena was shocked to see they were the former members of the Yuuhi Guts. Had they... run off and joined a motorcycle gang, rather than be sold? 

On stage, Atsumi looked looked like he'd seen a ghost. 

A whole team of ghosts.

"Hey, Mr. Tournament Organizer," Habashira drawled, perfectly audibly. He must have been wearing a microphone, and one hooked up to the stadium speakers, no less. The music cut off right as he started speaking. It felt both comically over-the-top and meticulously planned at once, and Sena carefully refrained from looking at his master. "You really going to give third place to Bando? I didn't know you let teams compete with stolen property."

Nakamura looked from Juri to Habashira, and then for some reason turned to look over in Sena's direction again. No, Sena realized. _He_ wasn't the one Nakamura was looking at. 

"Don't tell me... this what you were—" Nakamura muttered, before realizing that everyone could hear him, and breaking off. 

"You Bando dipshits have been playing with _my_ quarterback," Habashira added. It took Sena a moment to figure out that Atsumi was the only quarterback standing on the stage. Atsumi, by the looks of him, still hadn't processed it, instead staring uncomprehendingly out at his former team. "Hand him over."

"It's true," said Habashira's passenger, who had managed to scramble off the motorcycle, nearly knocking it over. "Ms. Sawai, I've been trying to reach out to your employer, but I've gotten nothing but silence. Perhaps you could take a message for me?"

"Mr. Yoshida, what's this about?" said Juri faintly. "My employer purchased Atsumi from you. I delivered the check myself."

"Let me just confer with the rest of the association," Nakamura said, and wandered offstage.

"We never finalized any sale," Yoshida replied. "There was a bit of, ahem, delay in getting the funds together, but in the end, Zokugaku outbid you. I also have to say, I was happy to let the boys go as a set."

"But why didn't you say anything earlier? Before we played?" Juri pulled a phone from her pocket, furiously dialing. "We could have done something."

"I left so many messages," said Yoshida. "He never responded. I guess it's you I should have been calling all along."

"Like you could have found anyone," Habashira added. "People don't sell to the Bando meat grinder anymore."

Nakamura returned to the stage, grimacing. "If Bando doesn't have enough players to go on, they have to be disqualified. That means, for the third place slot to nationals..." He looked out into the Deimon section of the stands again, and then brightened hopefully. "Unless, Ms. Sawai, your team will be able to field another player?"

"No one," Habashira repeated, "wants to sell to Bando anymore."

"You know what?" Juri snapped her phone shut. From this far, it was hard to make out much of an expression on her face, but she straightened as she put her phone away. "The lizard man is right. There's no way my employer will find a replacement player in time. He'll be too busy looking for a new manager, anyway." 

She reached out her hand for Atsumi, who was still looking dumbstruck. "Let's go—this isn't our team anymore. For you, it never was, was it?"

***

There was so much noise in his head that Atsumi didn't even realize the crowd was erupting until he happened to look up. There was a blur of motion in the raised stands all around him, like distant leaves rustling in the trees, as everyone seemed to be doing _something_ , turning to their neighbors, waving excitedly, probably all chattering about the free drama they had just witnessed. 

Shaken, he followed Juri over to his old teammates—no, his new teammates?—wishing he could hide the Bando uniform he wore. 

Even though it hadn't been his choice, he couldn't help but feel like he'd abandoned his team, that he'd been purchased by Bando to play in the semi-finals, while they'd been—not. Maybe it was only fair that he'd be passed around like so much property now, right on stage. But as he got close enough, Fukase only said, "Captain," with a familiar nod that made Atsumi's chest tighten.

"Took you long enough," Haibara smirked, reaching out to punch him in the arm. "We've been practicing without you, you're going to need to catch up."

"How come only you were good enough, huh?" said Akaboshi. "They only take team captains or something?"

"I," Atsumi struggled to find something to say to his team, his foolish, impossibly loyal team. "I don't think I'm your captain anymore," he settled on, with a wary look in Habashira's direction. He'd heard of the man who'd purchased him, of course. Habashira had a reputation for getting into fights, on and off the field, but right now he was just standing there with his arms crossed, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

"Atsumi, my boy," said Coach—no, just Mr. Yoshida now. He staggered over from behind Habashira, still looking a little green from his ride. "The mix up was unfortunate, but I do think you'll be happier with these folks." Then he looked around dubiously. They were surrounded by motorcycles, and the smell of leather and engine oil overpowered even the grassy scent of the field. Two of the men had started wrestling each other for no apparent reason, and seemed on the verge of tearing each others' heads off, when they both simultaneously pulled out switchblades. "...Maybe."

Habashira pushed himself into the fight, heedless of the flashing knives, breaking them up with an efficiency that spoke of practice. So that was probably an everyday kind of knife fight. 

"Hey, new guy," he said over his shoulder, still holding the two apart. Atsumi stood at attention. "You going to get out of that Bando gear or what?"

"Yes... captain," he said hesitantly. Habashira made a disgusted sound, but maybe he was just clearing his throat. "I'll go get changed."

"You should all get off my field," said Nakamura, from the stage. "You're lucky I don't ban you for another year, causing a disruption like this."

Habashira ripped a wire out of his shirt. "See you losers next year," he crooned into it, grinning. "We'll be up on that stage, count on it," and crushed the mic in his fingertips.

***

They never announced what was going to happen with the third place slot at nationals, but from Hiruma's unsettling good cheer, he seemed to think it was as good as theirs.

"I'm off to pay that fucking president a visit. In case some people need to be reminded of... situations," he announced ominously, as the team slowly filed their way down the bleachers—them and the entire rest of the crowd.

Sena held out his hands together, in case Hiruma wanted to tie them to something, and got a strange look in response.

"You think I'm walking around with cuffs, fucking shrimp? You just stay with the fatty here. Don't move an inch from his side."

Sena latched on to Kurita's hand immediately, barely managing to grasp half it in his own. Kurita looked back in surprise, and then petted Sena's head gently, like a kitten. 

Satisfied, Hiruma jabbed into the crowd, elbows first, and shortly disappeared into it. 

Once the rest of them had gotten down out of the bustle and onto the field, Monta and Yukimitsu wanted water, while Juumonji and his brothers disappeared off to wherever they normally went, when they weren't with the team. Komusubi looked up to see Sena clutching Kurita's hand, and possessively grabbed Kurita's other one, tugging it to himself.

"I'm going to go take a leak," Musashi said, wandering towards the bathrooms, in the direction that Monta and Yukimitsu had disappeared to. On his way, he was passed by Atsumi, who was coming straight towards them.

"Sena." Atsumi stopped directly in front of them. He had changed out of his uniform, and was in a simple, loose shirt and baggy pants. "I thought you might be around."

Sena's eyes darted around, but his master had left him with Kurita, who was too busy petting Komusubi now to pay them any attention. "Are you... okay?" he said tentatively. He still remembered how upset Atsumi had been, about getting sold once. Now he'd been sold two times, in the span of a single tournament. 

"I'm with my team. We're still going to play football." A small, fierce smile was fighting its way onto Atsumi's face. "I... heard your master had something to do with it. I just wanted to ask, did you put him up to this?"

"What? Oh no, no way, I had no idea, I..." Sena's voice dropped to a whisper. "You know we might get to go to nationals now, right? Because Bando was disqualified? If he did have something to do with it, that's probably what master was going for."

Atsumi shook his head. "There were plenty of ways to take out Bando. You should see how it's run, inside, it's a mess. Maybe my sale was even the easiest way. But the rest of my team? Getting us all bought together? They were going to be laborers, Sena. They were going to pave roads, and work assembly lines, and never see a football again. I just want to know how it happened." 

Before Sena could process this, Atsumi looked out over the field and back. "Anyway, I shouldn't take too long. If you had anything to do with it, then thank you. That's all." 

Even after he'd walked away, Sena still hadn't thought of a thing to say to him. 

It was true that he'd been devastated about the Yuuhi team. It had been his first match, and his first realization that the win that he'd been so anxiously clawing for could only come at the expense of someone else's loss. He hadn't been the only one desperate to perform, but only his team had made it. 

He remembered talking to Monta about it afterwards, the shock of finding Hiruma listening. Had he mentioned some things he shouldn't have, like wishing Yuuhi could stay together? Was it really possible that Hiruma had heard, and filed it away, and done this silent favor for him? 

It just didn't seem plausible. It didn't have a thing to do with winning the tournament.

Hiruma only cared about winning. 

A squeeze of his hand pulled Sena out of his thoughts. Kurita was smiling down at him gently, and with a touch of worry. "Don't try to understand Hiruma. It's only going to hurt your brain."

"Don't assume everyone has a brain as dumb as yours," Hiruma said, appearing from the other side of Kurita. "We're going to fucking nationals! Where is everyone?"

"We are?" Kurita cried happily, and nearly tore Sena's arm off as he danced in place. "You mean we still have a chance at the Christmas Bowl?" 

"Don't tell me you ever thought otherwise," Hiruma jabbed his finger into Kurita's side. "I said we'd go, didn't I?" But he didn't seem upset, even when he found out the team had split to the winds, simply leaned against a nearby wall with his phone to wait. 

A few minutes passed, Kurita celebrating with Komusubi, Hiruma tapping cheerily and menacingly away, while Sena tried to work up all his courage. 

Finally, he said, in a tiny voice, as if hoping he might not be heard after all, "Master? Can I... ask you something?"

"What?" Hiruma turned his grin over from his phone screen, toothy and relaxed, like a fed lion. 

"I... I think I was really improving, training with... Shin? If we're going to nationals, do you think I could... start again? You could watch, or I-I could be chained for it, we could find a way, I just thought—"

Hiruma raised an eyebrow, and then his hand, a stopping motion. Sena's jaw clicked shut.

"Is this the first time you ever asked me for something?"

Sena's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry! I-I know I don't deserve any favors, not after what I did, I shouldn't have—" He broke off as Kurita's hand, still cradling his, gave another squeeze. 

"If you want it, then earn it." Hiruma leaned in so he could run a hand up the back of Sena's neck again. This time, there was a measuring quality to the touch, that made Sena instinctively straighten his spine. "Tell me, just how much service training have you had?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "[Nakamura](https://imgur.com/iuKGZ5d.jpg)" and "[Yoshida](https://i.imgur.com/SmhTdm5.jpg)" really exist in the manga, but I gave them some generic names because I couldn't find their real ones for the life of me. Could it be... that Inagaki hates naming his characters as much as I do?? (Please let me know if I missed them somewhere!)


	45. Dressing up

"You really think this is a good idea?" Musashi's tone was mild, and somehow more condemning than if he had raised it. 

He was reclined on his desk, legs propped up over the back of his chair. It was about the only place in his room to sit, since the bed was strewn with Hiruma's... things. The light streaming in through the window behind him cast a halo around his outline, but gave his face a dark and brooding tint. 

"He'll behave," said Hiruma absently, adjusting the collar on Sena's throat.

"I will," Sena promised, slightly breathless, and tilted his chin back a little farther, to give his master room to work. There was a slight squeeze as Hiruma notched the buckle, but once the pressure was released, it seemed to sit just right. 

The collar was made of finer material than anything Sena was used to, anymore—soft, cool leather, no irritating tag or stitching or clasp. Maybe he'd worn such a thing when he was a new slave, fresh and valuable. There was a silver ring hanging just under his chin, possibly fit for a leash. Tentatively, he reached up to touch it, and found it was about the width of his finger. 

"Too tight?" said Hiruma sharply.

"No, master." Sena dropped his hand, chastened. No touching.

Frowning, Hiruma tucked a finger between the collar and Sena's skin, checking the fit again.

"That's not what I meant," Musashi said. "Though it is going to look kinky as hell. It's not the 90's anymore, we have chips now." He sounded casual, but his eyes were fixed a little too intently on Sena's neck. 

"Old money means old-fucking-fashioned." Hiruma touched Sena's bare shoulder, a gesture that would have been more comforting if he hadn't then turned back to the bed, and resumed digging through the pile of what Sena would only hesitatingly have called "clothing" dumped out over it. 

Sena had taken off his shirt as ordered, and nervously waited to see what would replace it. He began to cross his arms protectively over his chest, but then forced them back to his sides, in case having a view of his body was important for this... decision. 

"It's this whole, hmm, heist thing," Musashi continued, which gave Sena pause, and added a new layer to his nerves. Heist thing? 

He resisted shooting a questioning glance at his master, which seemed to be telling enough for Musashi. 

"He doesn't even know what he agreed to?"

"He doesn't have to agree to it," Hiruma scoffed. "He's mine, he'll do what I fucking say."

Sena nodded at this, and was startled by the sensation of cool leather shifting, brushing his neck and chin as he did. It moved with him, like thick fabric, like a second, slightly rigid, skin. Even when he swallowed, there was no restriction, less like a hand clamping his throat, than a touch ever hovering slightly above it. 

"Fine," Hiruma sighed—Musashi must have given him some kind of look while Sena was lost in the sensation. He put down the item he was holding, which resembled a jumbled collection of straps more than anything else, and Sena held back a sigh of relief. 

"So we're going to nationals. That means we get a fucking invite to the Football Association's fucking dinner. We'll draw lots for the bracket, posture, drink. Poker?"

Musashi nodded.

"Poker, too. Your classic schmooze fest."

"We're all going?" Sena said. That might not be so bad, to have the whole team with him.

Hiruma laughed. "I'm going. And my fucking plus one."

"It's not for the players," Musashi explained. "They throw this party for the team owners. And these are the kind of guys that don't go anywhere without a personal slave attending them."

"Yeah, that." Hiruma said. "Their laps would get chilly otherwise."

"That's... me?" Sena squeaked.

"Okay," Hiruma picked up the thing with the straps again, and started to untangle it. "Here's the great thing about being a slave—I'm being fucking serious, you fucking old man, you want me to tell him or not? The great thing is you can move around unnoticed. No one's going to wonder what you're up to." 

"Yeah, sure," said Musashi, "Because an unattended slave doesn't look suspicious—"

" _Sometimes_ ," Hiruma growled. "Like at a dinner party. Once everyone else is in their cups, you'll take a left out of the dining room, straight to the elevator." He began to jab into the air with each step, ticking them off on his fingers. "Down four floors, make a right, past a cubicle farm, then take the other elevator—"

"Isn't that stretching how far he can get unnoticed? Slave or not."

"The slave thing is just getting him out of the room. 'I need to fetch some more fucking refreshments,' you know." 

Sena tried to imagine delivering that line, word for word, and felt a little faint. 

"After that you just have to be sneaky. Fast and sneaky. You can do that, can't you, fucking shrimp?"

Sena forced himself to nod. Not for the first time in the last few minutes, he regretted being so bold as to ask his master for a favor. He hadn't been punished or hit for it. He should have known Hiruma could do worse than that. 

Done untangling, Hiruma adjusted his hold to two seemingly random straps, and the rest of it unfurled, in a cascade of leather and buckles. Hanging, vaguely torso-shaped, in the air, it didn't promise to cover particularly much of someone wearing it, but maybe that wasn't the point. 

"I'm just going to come right out and say it," Musashi said. "Why him?"

Hiruma shot him one of his cold glares, but broke it off uncharacteristically quickly. "He's better behaved than you, old man." 

"But I've _been_ there," Musashi said, to no avail.

Hiruma set down the harness, shaking his head, and picked up something almost entirely fishnet. "This?" he muttered to himself, turning it over. 

"Where did you even get that?" said Musashi. "Sure you're not just trying to live out some fantasy of yours?"

"It's not about what I want," Hiruma said.

Sena blanched. If Hiruma asked him which one _he_ wanted to wear—

"It's about what those fucking moneybags want. There's a look we're going for. It fucking matters." 

He dropped the fishnets too, and moved onto a black bundle of something. Sena had a moment of optimism as he watched it unroll—there was definitely more _material_ there, compared to the first two—but once it was held up, the light shone through strategically placed holes that actually managed to make him blush.

"Are... are all the owners going to bring one of their players?" Sena wondered. He tried to imagine appearing in something like that before Shin, or Riku, and then trying to compete against them afterwards. He'd be lucky not to die of embarrassment on the spot.

Hiruma gave Sena a strange look. "You think the other team owners are like me, huh? Only have a handful of slaves to choose from?"

"They'll probably bring their favorite toy," Musashi said, lip curling. "Or a fresh one they're trying to break in to their new position."

"I never asked you to be part of this," Hiruma said sharply. "Fucking old man, always trying to make things harder for yourself."

"I already was a part of it."

"You... you were there before?" Sena said, remembering an earlier comment.

Musashi started, as if he'd forgotten Sena even existed. "Last year. It's sick, Sena. It's a different world. These are people who own entire teams of football players, whole factories of workers, and that's not counting the personal army they keep at home. They're completely desensitized to the idea of owning a human life, holding it in their hands, toying with it—"

"You know who would know?" Hiruma said suddenly. "The fucking baldy. He was an accountant, right? Probably rubbing his fucking elbows with rich people all day long."

That seemed to knock Musashi off track.

"Bet he's out practicing, he always is." Hiruma gave Musashi a pointed jerk of his head. 

Musashi stared back flatly, but after a moment, hopped off his desk and strode out. 

Immediately afterwards, Kurita wandered in. "I was wondering where you all were! Musashi looked sad, you didn't say something mean to him, did you?"

Hiruma had returned to picking through the pile on the bed. "Just being myself."

"Are you going to wear that?" Kurita said. "Wouldn't that be uncomfortable?"

"You want to try?" Hiruma responded. 

"I have to go to work," Kurita said, as if that was the only thing stopping him. "Be nice," he added reproachfully, as he left.

An awkward silence fell.

Eventually, Sena asked, "If Musashi was at the dinner last year..." and then trailed off.

"What?" Hiruma snapped. "Finish your thought or fucking don't start it."

"I-I just thought he might know? What I should wear?" 

"I don't," Musashi said curtly. He had returned with a sweating Yukimitsu in tow, and Monta, who had tagged along out of curiosity. "I was blindfolded the whole night." 

"Oh." Sena gulped. "Do you, uh, remember anything?"

Musashi climbed back onto his seat on the desk, and tipped his head back against the window, almost thoughtfully. "Cigar smoke," he said finally. "Laughter. Choking."

Hiruma calmly brushed past this. "Fucking baldy, you had tons of big-name accounts, right? What did they put their slaves in?"

"I wasn't that kind of accountant," Yukimitsu said. "But... in my experience, I don't think you have to go quite that extreme." 

"Just the fucking dreads then," Hiruma muttered, under his breath.

Yukimitsu approached the bed with trepidation, but relaxed as he spotted some of the things still buried in the pile. 

"What about something like this?" He pulled out a gray shirt. The fabric was scrunched and clingy, but positively modest compared to what Hiruma had picked so far. It had _sleeves_. Sena wasn't sure if it was really what Yukimitsu thought was right for a personal slave, or if he was just trying to do him a favor, but either way, he held his breath. 

Hiruma took it, and stretched it out in his hands. "What, you didn't get hired out to rich people?"

"No, it wasn't an accounting firm. I was in-house, for Jari Productions. You know, Oujou's parent company?"

"You what." Hiruma lowered the shirt, for the sole purpose of staring at Yukimitsu over it. 

"That's... kind of how I fell in love with football," Yukimitsu flushed slightly. "They had me on the Oujou acquisition for all of two weeks before they realized it was too important of a project, and gave it to my boss instead. But for those two weeks, I was watching their videos night and day. Studying their records. Balancing their books. It all just seemed so... exotic. So different from—"

"Hold it right the fuck there," Hiruma said, taking a step closer, then another. "We don't need your personal fucking backstory. Exactly what kind of accounts did you handle?"

"I—" Yukimitsu stumbled back a step, but Hiruma was faster.

"And what can you still get access to," Hiruma added, right in Yukimitsu's face now, "if I put you on the fucking network at Football Association HQ?"

***

"Might want to shut your jaw, fucking shrimp," said Hiruma, which was how Sena realized he was staring with his mouth wide open.

Right, his behavior reflected on his master here. He straightened, and followed at Hiruma's heel, but not without one last glance upwards, before they entered the courtyard at the base of the building, and the full height of it was too close to see.

The Football Association's headquarters were nothing like he'd expected. If anything, he was picturing something like a school building, or maybe a football stadium. Instead, it was a towering skyscraper right in the heart of downtown, sleek lines and full-story windows glinting all the way to the top.

"I didn't think it would be so... fancy," Sena said quietly. 

"Did you think the real game here was football? To these guys, it's all about money, and they make a fuck-ton of it." Hiruma had that grin on his face again, like a flame stoked by a challenge. "The tickets. The betting. The trading. You're down there training your asses off, and to them it's just another fucking investment."

Based on the size of the building, the investment was paying off. They entered the lobby, staffed even at this time of night, and were directed to a bank of elevators. 

When it came, the elevator was lined with mirrored walls, and Sena was confronted with his own reflection at every angle. He checked his posture, and his clothing—Hiruma had agreed to the gray shirt Yukimitsu picked, and actual pants too, after Yukimitsu had pointed out he'd need pockets to carry the keycard and the flashdrive. It still didn't feel natural, material sticking to him all over, but after having seen the alternatives, he was all too grateful for the covering he'd been granted.

Hiruma pushed the button for the roof, and the floors ticked by at boggling speeds as they zoomed up. Soon enough, they were spilled out not onto an open rooftop, but a covered area not too different from the lobby they had just left. The walls and ceiling here were all glass, opaque against the night sky, but Sena thought he could vaguely make out a glittering skyline beyond. A sign set out in front of the elevator doors welcomed them, and pointed unnecessarily toward coat check, a few short steps away.

There was only one person waiting at the counter when they got in line, and when he took off his coat, it was to reveal brown robes sweeping down to the floor. Sena's eyes automatically snapped to the top of the figure's head, then back down. No dreadlocks. It was okay. 

Hiruma touched him on the back of his shoulders, and Sena reminded himself for the hundredth time to stand up straight. When he came to a stop, it was just a little closer to his master than was strictly proper.

"Mr... Agon?" said the man working the coat check, whose name tag read "Toby". 

"You really can't tell the difference between us?"

"Er, well, we were expecting Agon..."

"He couldn't be bothered," said Unsui tiredly. "I'm all you're getting tonight."

"I... see." Toby swallowed. "Well, you're very welcome, Mr. Unsui. Did you... bring an attendant?" He held out a tag hopefully. 

Unsui gestured at the empty space around himself. "We don't keep slaves at the temple."

"What a buzzkill," Hiruma cut in, reaching in front of Unsui to grab the tag. "The fucking dreads might be a psycho, but at least he cracks a fucking smile once in a while."

Unsui opened his mouth to respond, but settled with a scornful look as he walked away. Apparently taking this as a victory, Hiruma was beaming as he clipped the tag to the ring on Sena's collar, and made a turning motion with his finger. 

"Is there fucking booze?" he said, as Sena turned around, and Toby leaned over the counter to scan the back of his neck. 

"We have an open bar out on the balcony. It's out and to the right." Toby gestured with two fingers, elbow straight, like a flight attendant.

"Go get me something, shrimp," Hiruma said, shrugging off his coat. He had a suit jacket on underneath, no tie, and jeans with it. For how much time he had deliberated what to put Sena in, he had disappeared into his own room for only a minute before emerging in this. 

"Yes, master," said Sena. The more he was seen walking around on his own, the more natural it would look when he snuck off later—a mission he was resolutely not thinking about, not yet. 

Besides, it was his job to fetch things for his master. This was one of the first times he actually felt like he was serving Hiruma, instead of just eating his food and playing games on his time. Eager to prove he could do a good job at this, it wasn't until he got to the exit that he realized he should have asked his master what he wanted to drink. 

He turned, just as the elevator dinged, and a giant of a man emerged, comically large, like a clown squeezing out of a tiny car. Later, Sena would think back and realize he probably wasn't all that much bigger than Kurita. But as the elevator doors parted, only revealing more and more expansive muscle, Sena's eyes played tricks on him. As the shaggy-maned figure surged out, head swinging around wildly, scenting for prey, the massive form could have taken up the entire roof. 

Only when that gaze passed right over him, dismissive, did Sena unfreeze, bit by bit. 

The elevator had made another trip down and back in that time, and another man came out—Sena did a double take—the pinstriped man from jail, dressed almost exactly the same as he had the night he'd been bailed out.

"I thought there would be more strong opponents," the giant said, without looking behind him. He picked up the welcome sign, and bent it in his massive hands, though the post must have been as thick as Sena's wrist, the same way someone else might fiddle with a paperclip. "You said these would be all the best teams in the country, Marco."

Marco raised his hands, placating. "The _owners_ of the best teams. Let's get in line." 

Watching the giant stomp into place behind Hiruma, Sena hesitated to leave. But Hiruma caught sight of him, paused there by the door, and waved him on. 

"You're... uh... supposed to check your weapons..." said Toby nervously, as Sena pushed the door open, letting in a draft of cold, night air.

"Are you saying my entire slave is a weapon?" Marco demanded, and then shrugged. "I guess I can't argue with that. But what do you expect me to do about it?"

"We... we welcome you to bring a personal attendant..."

"I _am_ his personal attendant," growled the giant, and let the sign fall to the ground with a clatter.

Sena slipped out the door before he could be a witness to more.

It was chilly out on the balcony, and Sena was even more grateful to be dressed in more than just straps or fishnets. Come to think of it, the giant slave had been dressed in normal clothes too. Had Hiruma just been trying to scare him with the lurid alternatives? 

The rooftop was edged in glass, and over it, Sena had a perfect view of the dark ridge of the mountain, and the jeweled lights of the city laid out at its feet. He turned the corner to find the bar as promised, and a couple of tall braziers set around it, burning with yellow-blue flame. Huddling under the nearest one, he scanned the counter for some kind of menu.

"Here to get something for your master, love?" said the bartender, an older woman with platinum blonde curls, after a glance at his collar. 

Sena nodded, and had a sudden burst of inspiration—on his very first day with Hiruma, at Kid's mansion, Hiruma had been offered whiskey, and downed his entire glass. If this was some sort of test, that was the only plausible answer Sena could think of. 

A few minutes later found him slipping back inside, glass sweating in his hand as soon as he entered the heated room, clinking with ice cubes. Hiruma wasn't at coat check anymore, but Toby caught his eye and signaled, again with the rigid arm gesture, so Sena hurried through the partition.

He found himself in an old-fashioned club room, all dark wood panels and red velvet trim. It was dim in here, which meant it was actually possible to see out the windows and into the beautiful panoramic sky laid out around them. There was a single long table set in the center of the room. Several older men sat around one end, chatting and drinking, slaves knelt at their sides or, yes, sprawled on their laps. Sena spotted one dressed in nothing but a harness, almost a twin of the one Hiruma had been considering at home, and sent up a mental whisper of thanks to Yukimitsu. He recognized President Nakamura, but whether the others were from the association, or other teams' owners, he had no idea. 

Hiruma was facing Marco near the back of the room, looking more like they were in the middle of a duel than a chat. Marco had his elbow leaned back against the edge of a pool table, and the giant stood behind him, massive arms crossed over his massive chest, glaring out balefully at the rest of the room. 

Giving the giant a wide berth, Sena hurried to his master's side, and handed him the drink. 

"I really didn't want to get stuck talking to you so early in the evening," Marco was saying. "Everyone says you have a wicked tongue on you."

Hiruma took the whiskey and sipped it, and made no reaction. Sena breathed a silent sigh of relief. To be unacknowledged, invisible, was the best service he could provide, and the safest he could imagine being, especially here, among these terrifying people. 

"Isn't that why you brought the wall of flesh?" Hiruma nodded at the giant. "Fear tactics? Or is he going to fucking serve you at table?"

"See? Scary," Marco laughed. Then he spotted Sena, and brightened. 

"Oh, it's you again. Didn't you get yourself anything? Let me offer you a cola—I brew it myself." He had an open bottle in his hand, and waved it in Sena's direction.

So much for being invisible; Sena drew back in alarm. There was a small frown on Hiruma's face—Sena knew he should have told him about the jail encounter, but it had honestly slipped his mind, with everything else that happened that day. 

"I-I couldn't," he mumbled.

"Oh of course, I forgot. How silly of me. You didn't end up getting away from your master, huh? That's too bad." Marco put the bottle to his own lips instead, and took a long, leisurely pull. 

"I hope your team loses," he added pleasantly, when he had finished, "before you have to face Gaou here." He motioned to the giant at his side. "He'll crush you."

Gaou glanced down at Sena like he wasn't even worth crushing. Sena realized wildly that the giant wasn't wearing a collar—maybe they didn't make them that big—and had his tag pinned to his shirt, where it looked small as a button.

"There's the bracket." Hiruma pointed to the board set up against the far wall, empty bracket etched onto its surface. "And the draw box. Why don't you do something about it?"

"Ooh," Marco pursed his lips. "You think they leave it out in the open just to tempt us?"

"Just you, you fucking eyelashes. I'm starving. Go get me a plate, fucking shrimp."

Grateful to disengage from those two, Sena followed the direction of Hiruma's push, and found the buffet line in the next room. He didn't recognize half the stuff laid out, but there was another slave moving down one side, so Sena grabbed a plate and hurried down the other, trying not to make it too obvious he was picking out the exact same things. 

When he got back, Hiruma was just in the process of sitting down. It was hard to tell if he was pointedly sitting at the opposite end of the table from Marco and the old guys, or purposely sitting down next to Unsui to annoy him. He received the plate without a word, and allowed Sena to kneel down, between his chair and Unsui's. Unsui didn't spare him a glance, and after a few moments passed, that feeling of invisibility, temporary safety, settled over him again. Daringly, he tipped his head against his master's thigh, and closed his eyes, letting the sound of conversations and clinking cutlery wash over him. 

Throughout the course of the evening, Hiruma sent him on more errands, sometimes with a fancy drink order, sometimes just by handing him his empty plate. A few times, he was ordered to get something for Unsui too, which was how he found out that Unsui was a vegetarian, and liked gin. 

Every time Sena got up, the people at the table had shifted around, like musical chairs. The first time he saw Kid, it was sitting uncomfortably next to Hiruma, Tetsuma standing precisely behind his seat and 45 degrees to the left. Later, the pair had moved down the table, and Kid had visibly relaxed, a glass in one hand, the other waving expansively, chatting with Nakamura and the others like they were old friends. Come to think of it, Kid had probably been at this table in the past, given how well Seibu usually did at tournaments. Maybe they _were_ old friends of his, though they were all old enough to be his father.

The next time Sena got up, it was to see the Oujou coach arriving, fashionably late. Shin's friend, Sakuraba, was following behind him, dressed more formally than he'd been even with his client, in a vest and a movie-star sort of hat. As Sena stood, and waited for the pins and needles to run out of his legs, their gazes met. Sakuraba was the first to break eye contact, ducking his head, but then, it made sense that he'd act different, in his owner's presence. 

A glass was pressed into Sena's hand, drawing his attention back where it belonged.

"Finish this, and get me another one," Hiruma said. "Refill for the fucking monk too." 

Sena took it with surprise. Hiruma must have caught him staring longingly at the drink when he'd brought it earlier, but it didn't seem like any sort of reprimand. In Sena's defense, it had been thirsty work, and hours of it so far, running back and forth between rooms. As soon as he got outside, he drank it down greedily—mostly melted ice, only a faint bite of alcohol to it.

Hiruma was back to needling Unsui again, when Sena returned. "So what's this about not keeping slaves at the temple?" he was saying. "Got a slave who remembers things differently."

Surprisingly, Unsui hadn't tried to get away from Hiruma the whole evening, at least not that Sena had noticed. Sena set their respective drinks down in front of the two of them, and knelt back down in his spot.

"Agon has always gotten away with things the rest of us couldn't." Unsui's voice had gotten softer as the night went on; maybe the drinks had mellowed him. He even offered a quiet, "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I know Musashi didn't have a pleasant time with us, last year."

"More than a fucking year," Hiruma grinned. 

Unsui sighed. "You have to understand, we were all shocked when the two of you left. Even Agon. Your ties to your friend, Kurita, must have been strong. Stronger than your ties to football."

"Don't be stupid, like your shitty-ass team is the only place we could play." 

Unsui ran a finger over the rim of his glass. "My brother has always been able to attain whatever he wanted, simply by reaching for it. He's never experienced..."

"Denial?" Hiruma suggested. 

"...anything different," Unsui finished. "Before the two of you left." 

Hiruma laughed. "I'll make him experience worse than that, I guarantee it."

Unsui put his hand out vaguely in demonstration, a deep frown furrowing his eyebrows. "Agon's hand has incredible strength, but... it only knows how to crush. It doesn't know how to open, because nothing has ever been able to escape its grasp before. I've always thought his talent has been his greatest blessing, and his greatest curse, for he's never learned to put in effort. He's never had to."

Hiruma burst into raucous laughter. From the way Unsui winced, Sena thought they were probably drawing stares from the rest of the table.

"Spoken like a true fucking monk. Don't pretend to be all sympathetic. I know that look, I've seen it on your fucking twin. You're trying to dig for information." Hiruma slammed back his drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Always so fucking cautious. Does your brother know you have so little faith in him?"

Listening intently, Sena was surprised when Hiruma dropped the glass below table level, and tapped him on the shoulder with the edge of it, twice. 

The signal. 

It had been so long, Sena almost forgot he was waiting for it, but Hiruma hadn't asked for a refill like that the whole night. 

Ice flooded his veins, as the moment he'd been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly right in front of him. He tried to couch it in football terms, as he got to his feet. This was the play his master wanted from him. Hiruma thought he could do it, so he had to do it. 

As he stood, he noticed that the whole table was looking their way. Between Hiruma's loud laughter, and the clear sounds of argument, he had drawn all their attention, and they were all going to see Sena leave with his master's empty glass. The last impression they'd have was Sena running errands, as he should be. Did it mean they wouldn't question his absence later? Sena prayed for some of that earlier invisibility. 

"I'll leave nothing to chance," Unsui was saying calmly, as Sena left. "Agon has the talent and skill, I can't do anything for him there. That means anything he might have missed, I need to pick up."

"You can't put in the effort for someone else," Hiruma cackled. "Twins or no, that's just not how it fucking works. I'll show the dreads a fucking thing or two about the power of hard work."

This time when Sena slipped onto the balcony, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and went left instead of right, chanting the instructions to himself like a mantra. The service elevator was straight ahead, as Hiruma had promised, and no one stopped him all the way there. 

Hard work was right, he thought to himself, pulling out the keycard. 

Yukimitsu and Hiruma had both done their parts. Now it was time for his.


	46. Dressing down

Fast and sneaky, his master had said. Sena stood in the corner of the service elevator, just short of leaning against either wall, and tried not to feel trapped as the doors closed in on him. It was hard to be fast and sneaky in a metal box.

In contrast to the one they'd taken up from the lobby, this elevator was enormous, sized maybe for pallets, or furniture, or a janitor's cart or two. Instead of polished mirror, the walls were corrugated metal, and going down each floor seemed to take an entire rattling eternity. Sena was practically buzzing himself by the time it came to a stop. He stared at the doors, willing them to open, but when the whoosh finally came, it was the wall behind him that slid open. If he'd been leaning against it, he would have fallen right out. 

Turning, he took a cautious step out—and immediately ducked behind a nearby planter, as the overhead lights snapped on, one by one, all the way down the hall. 

After several long moments, in which no one came shouting, he exchanged a sheepish glance with the potted fern, and stood up on slightly wobbly legs. The lights, probably motion-activated, illuminated compacted brown carpet, uninspiring white walls, and cubicles branching off to either side. Touching the flashdrive in his pocket for good luck, he began to make his way down the hall, forcibly checking the urge to stop every few steps to glance over his shoulder. He didn't have that much time. 

Still, as he passed by the empty cubicles, he couldn't help but wonder about the people who sat there during the day. Some of the desks were all business—a computer, a binder, a stapler—while others had been decorated with trinkets, photos, or, in one case, an abundance of greenery, leafy vines draped over every surface, crawling over the monitors and falling toward him over the divider. Strangely, despite the building he was in, he didn't see a single scrap of football memorabilia. 

The door to the server room was helpfully labeled, and took the keycard without complaint. At the beep, he turned the handle with the back of his hand, and slipped in. 

When Hiruma and Yukimitsu had been discussing it, Sena had pictured something like the earlier cubicles—desks with computers on them, except maybe more, somehow? To his surprise, it looked more like a futuristic library, rows upon rows of black metal shelving, neatly laid out like dominoes, each stacked floor to ceiling with boxes that hummed and flickered with mysterious lights. It was almost as cold as the rooftop had been; when the door fell shut behind him, drawing an involuntary gasp from his lungs, he half expected to see his breath hanging in the air. 

Uneasily, he walked down the rows, counting, and when he slipped into the correct aisle, began counting racks instead. Each shelf must be one server, he supposed, and there were ten or twenty per rack. A profusion of brightly colored wires erupted from each box, but were tamed into even, symmetrical bundles. Tied into place, it made for an oddly satisfying effect, like an immaculately tended garden.

When he got to the correct rack, he knelt down to inspect the bottom server, hoping for some sort of helpful label here too. There wasn't anything, but then, he knew he had counted right. That was basically his entire job tonight. 

After only a moment of hesitation, he found the USB slot on the side, and inserted the flashdrive.

The result was explosive.

He hadn't expected any noticeable effect, but instead there came a great, immediate crash from above that had him grabbing for the racks—before he remembered not to touch anything, and shrank into himself instead. 

What was _that_? 

He couldn't see anything around him that had fallen, and it had sounded much more distant, at that. Had it come from the rooftop? He felt an irrational stab of worry, before deciding that a crash where his master was couldn't have traveled all the way down here. More likely it was a floor or two up, and a sign of trouble for him. Too bad he couldn't leave the flashdrive, or hurry it up in any way. He settled for scurrying to the far side of the room, away from the door, and found a secluded corner to huddle in, while he waited for the drive to do its work. Then he began to count the seconds. 

They hadn't been able to agree on how long it would take. Yukimitsu had jotted down some calculations, and concluded that it should take five minutes. Hiruma had immediately and reflexively said, "Then you fucking triple that, shrimp." Yukimitsu had suggested giving Sena a watch, but Sena had insisted he could count it. 

And so here he was, counting silently to himself, as he waited for another crash, for the door to swing open, or some sort of alarm to sound. Something was bound to go wrong. 

Maybe he should have asked for the watch.

***

Somehow, no one came looking for him, and there were no other strange noises, not even when he extracted the drive from the server, and then himself from the server room. 

The ride back up the service elevator seemed to take an even longer eternity, maybe because he knew he was so close to completing his mission, to making it back to relative safety. 

Just two more floors... one more floor... 

But, to his horror, when the elevator came to a stop, it wasn't at the roof, but the penthouse level right below it. 

Someone had called the elevator. And, just as he'd feared, he would be trapped on it when it opened. 

Sena jammed himself into the corner, by the call buttons. Then he realized he didn't know which side of the elevator was going to open, and flattened himself against the wall instead. Realistically, there was no way he could hide from whoever got on. He was still holding Hiruma's glass in his hand, like some sort of talisman. What, was he going to say he'd gotten lost on the way to the bar? 

The doors slowly creaked apart, but no one came in. In disbelief, Sena peered out. The lights were on in the hallway, but there was no one there. 

It was a lounge sort of area, with more ferns, followed by a a row of dark offices. The one at the end was lit up, and had the logo of Jari Productions pasted on its frosted glass wall. Why would they have an office here, right on the top floor of the Football Association? 

Sena should have taken the miracle for what it was, and continued his way to to the roof. But as the elevator doors started to close, Sena found himself reaching out to stop them. 

Through the translucent door of the Jari Pro office, he could see Sakuraba sitting with his hands on his knees, tears streaming freely down his face. 

Every brain cell left to him was screaming at him to let the doors fall shut, to get back to the roof, to flee before he was caught. But somehow, like an absolute idiot, he found himself creeping forward instead. It was Shin's friend—or maybe more than that. A five-minute meeting had reduced Shin to a brooding silence for the entire rest of their training session. If Sena could get just a little closer, he could see what was going on.

Then someone—beyond line of sight of the doorway—put his hand over Sakuraba's, where it rested on his knee. "That's why I don't want you engaging in that violent sport," the voice came muffled through the door.

Sena froze. Of course Sakuraba wouldn't be by himself. His owner would be with him—slaves weren't supposed to wander off on their own, not like Sena was doing.

To make matters worse, from behind there came the sound of metal sliding against metal, the elevator having given up on him, and preparing to make its way up, empty, to the roof. 

He turned, expecting closed doors to be the worst thing he saw, only to come face to face with Marco instead—pinstriped suit, slicked-back hair, and all—leaning against the wall next to the elevator, looking thoroughly amused. He was holding a gold bucket wrapped in a towel—ice? It was these kinds of details Sena's brain chose to focus on, after having failed him so badly so far, and led him to this disaster.

As Sena gaped, Marco put a finger to his lips, and then pointed over Sena's head, at the Jari Productions office. Sena wasn't about to make a sound anyway. He wasn't sure if he could have, if he tried.

Marco touched the call button behind him, and then the two of them stood staring at each other, waiting: Marco smiling widely, Sena nearly hyperventilating. 

When the elevator finally returned, Marco jerked his head towards it, lazily. It was obviously a trap, but Sena didn't see any alternatives. Marco made no move to get out of his way as Sena passed; he smelled of foreign cologne and, beneath it, rum. 

Sena moved to jab the button for the roof, but Marco quickly pushed in after him, pressing into his space, until he had Sena backed into a corner. He deposited the ice bucket in Sena's arms, and Sena took it one-handed, hugging it to his chest, feeling the surprising weight of it shift in its towel until he got a good grip. 

"Running away again?" As the doors shuddered closed, Marco seemed to feel it safe to talk. "Most slaves don't make it past strike one. You must be a truly exceptional player, to have gotten a second chance."

If only he knew.

Marco rummaged in the bucket for an ice cube, and without any warning touched it to Sena's forehead, right under the hairline, and began to trace a path down, as if scrawling an idle message. 

Shockingly cold, the ice began to melt immediately, and tickle down his brow. Sena, by contrast, stood frozen stock still. Still clutching Hiruma's glass with one hand, the ice bucket with the other, he didn't know what to do but close his eyes against the wet, dripping sensation, and say, in a quiet voice, "Please don't do that. My... my master wouldn't like it." Sometimes that worked—not to ask on his own behalf, but a reminder that his master, an actual person, with actual rights, would have something to say about it.

"I don't think your master would like any of this," Marco replied smoothly, but there was a clatter as he flicked the remainder of the cube back into the bucket. Sena chanced slitting his eyes back open. "What do you suppose he'll do, when I tell him where I found you?"

Sena told himself it wouldn't matter, he wasn't running away—except he shouldn't have been on this floor in the first place. If he'd just kept going to the roof as instructed, he'd never have been caught. As the ice water slipped down his temple, a sliver of trepidation came with it. 

"I'm a businessman," Marco went on, "I make deals. And this is the most generous offer I've made in years. You listening?"

What Sena was actually doing was trying to decide if it was possible to dash past Marco as soon as they got to the roof. If he remembered correctly, from snatches of conversation that evening, Marco ran a line of fancy department stores, all inherited. If Sena tried to get away, would a businessman be able to catch him?

Marco might have been thinking the same thing, because he shifted a little closer. His very body language said he knew exactly how to block any running path Sena chose, and he wouldn't be pleased if he had to do so.

"Here's my offer. I won't tell your owner I caught you running—again. You return that glass, fetch a new one, and slip back into position at his feet, like none of this ever happened. And, in return, you get him to forfeit against us."

Sena gasped. This was about the tournament? 

"Oh, please don't think I'm worried about losing. If our teams were to meet on the field, the outcome is obvious. You saw Gaou's... demonstration, didn't you?"

Demonstration? Sena tried to hide his confusion, but Marco read it right off his face.

"My. You really were gone for a long while. I'm surprised you didn't make it any farther than this." Marco resumed digging his fingers through the ice slowly, leisurely. "Well, you missed quite a show. Normally I wouldn't bring Gaou to show off—I prefer to keep our strength under wraps—but I did promise my business partner I'd do things her way."

Marco took his fingers out of the bucket, and traced them down Sena's cheek, every bit as cold as the ice itself. Then he turned away, and finally pushed the button for the roof. The elevator groaned and began to rise, with excruciating slowness. 

"We showed everyone what happens if they face us. Gave them a chance to do the smart thing, and concede, if they don't Gaou to snap their investments like twigs. It's not my style, but if it makes things easier, I don't mind. Like I said, I make deals."

The doors opened on the roof, and Marco held out his palm. Sena ran through the options in his head again, faster this time, but nothing new had presented itself. Hesitantly, he put out his hand, the one with the glass in it. Marco grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him along like a child. They went through the check-in area, where Toby offered a startled greeting, and into the dining room. 

Which had been demolished.

Where there had been a table in the center was now a jagged pile of lumberwood, vaguely shrouded by the tablecloth, sprouting with splintered legs and broken chair backs. The plaster walls had been punched through in several places, the curtains torn from them in great shreds. The tournament bracket had been drawn, but Sena couldn't make out the results, because the board had been crumpled under a gigantic fist print, and the wall with it, too. 

"It's not as good as seeing it live," Marco sighed, looking around himself. "But you get the idea, right?"

Sena got the idea. 

He also suddenly had a very clear image of where that crash had come from earlier. 

But he'd only heard one—as he looked around at the carnage, he wondered which of it had made the loudest impact, that he'd been able to hear it, several floors below. The heavy pool table on its side? The leather couch, cracked in half, spilling out springs and guts? Or the chandelier, crushed sadly into the ground, like a dropped ice cream?

"For whatever reason, your owner didn't seem intimidated. It's funny, none of the guys that are going to be facing Gaou head-on were wise enough to see the danger. Seibu. Shinryuuji. And Deimon." Here, Marco shrugged, like he'd tried his best, and couldn't be blamed for what happened next. "Some of the other team owners, who won't be fighting themselves, did look green. They put a lot of money into their players, you know? Miracle Ito's pet, who doesn't even play anymore, went downstairs to cry. But Hiruma just laughed."

Sena shuddered; he could picture it. 

Marco leaned down to look him earnestly in the eyes. "If your team doesn't forfeit, it's Hiruma who's going to get snapped in half. Gaou will have no trouble crushing him, and I'll have no trouble watching it. But I made a deal with Maria that I'd try things the nice way, so now I'm making a deal with you. What do you say?"

Yes, Sena wanted to say. Just to get Marco to let him go, just to go back to Hiruma's side unscratched. Why Marco thought Sena had a chance of influencing his master's decisions, he didn't know, but he could try to convince him, if that's what it took. He could even pretend it was for Hiruma's sake. Marco seemed to think Hiruma was the one most at risk if they played. Sena knew how much the game mattered to Hiruma—but did it matter more than his physical wellbeing?

"You're going to say no, aren't you?" Marco said, tone flat and disappointed. "I detest hearing that word."

Marco's grip tightened on Sena's wrist, and he suddenly felt his pulse pounding in his throat. The others had to be nearby still, he could hear the murmur dimly though the walls. If he could get away, or make enough noise—

But Marco only tugged him forward. "Don't look at me like that, I won't do anything to you. I'll leave that to your owner. We're through this way now." 

The next room looked much like the first, or at least, as it had, pre-Gaou. The same lush draperies and carpets. Couches, unsplit. Even a twin of the fallen chandelier, this one still twirling and sparkling on the ceiling. Where the other room had been set up with a long center table, this one had a number of smaller tables scattered tastefully throughout. Hiruma was sitting at one of them with a hand of cards, which he tapped against his chin. He looked up lazily when the two of them came in, eyes fixing on Sena, but made no obvious reaction.

More immediate was Gaou's massive form, hulked right next to the door. Sitting on the ground, he was still a head taller than Sena. Marco motioned between them, and Sena gave him an uncomprehending and slightly terrified look. Marco repeated the motion, and Sena realized he was meant to hand the ice bucket over.

"I don't need this," Gaou said, taking it. The bucket looked tiny in his giant palm. 

"Before it swells up," Marco insisted, "or it's going to make training harder."

Gaou rolled his eyes, but plunged his bloody knuckles into the bucket of ice. They barely fit past the lip. After a minute, he switched to the other hand. Marco said something about using the towel, which Gaou ignored.

While the two of them had their argument, Sena took the time to take a second look around the room. If anyone was still shaken up by Gaou's demonstration, there was no sign of it. The atmosphere in here was different, but not from disquiet. It was more like they had entered a different, darker part of the evening. There were tables with cards on them, sure. Kid was working a pool table in the corner, with an unimpressed Unsui hovering at his elbow. But on the farthest table, there wasn't pool, or cards, but a slave sprawled out, limbs splayed in four directions. From what he could see, over the shoulders of leering men, Sena thought the slave was fully naked. 

The drinks were still flowing, but the food had been replaced with, yes, cigars. As he inhaled the pungent, arid scent, Sena suddenly remembered Musashi's words— _Cigar smoke. Laughter. Choking._ —and swallowed. This was a bad time to have been caught out of place.

Satisfied that Gaou was continuing to ice his fists, Marco picked up Sena's wrist again, and led him over to Hiruma's table.

"Fucking eyelashes," Hiruma said, watching them make their way over. "Weren't you raised better than to put your hands on someone else's slave?"

Marco gave Sena another look, as if to say it was his last chance. Then he dropped his hold. "I found him wandering around the penthouse level. Can't keep a handle on one slave, Hiruma? Wasn't it just the other day I spotted him in jail, runaway tag on his collar and all?"

"What were you doing in jail?" said Hiruma. For Sena, he clicked his fingers and pointed at the ground at his feet. He hadn't done anything like this since the very beginning; Sena thought he should be humiliated, as he hurried over and knelt down, but he was mostly grateful to be out of Marco's grasp, equally frightened of what would come next. 

"I seem to recall he was cuffed, even in his holding cell. Must be awfully misbehaved. Why bring him here, Hiruma?"

"This fucking shrimp?" Hiruma laughed, "He doesn't need cuffs to be good." And he gave Sena an expectant look.

What—? And then he realized. Hastily, he put his hands behind his back, an imitation of the cuffs he'd worn. Kneeling, head bowed, he was the picture of obedience. He was pretty sure a lot of the conversation around them had stopped, that the others at the table, if not the whole room, were looking their way, maybe eager for another sort of demonstration. Hoping it would be allowed, he inched forward on his knees, until he could bury his face against Hiruma's leg. 

"If he's so good, then what was he doing downstairs?" There was a scraping sound, and Marco's voice getting closer. Was he drawing up a chair? "Several of us have offices down there. We can't have him wandering around, there's things we don't want him to see."

Hiruma's leg tensed, and Sena suddenly realized that his fears had been too modest. Marco was getting uncomfortably close to the truth. If he realized what Sena had really been up to, what Hiruma had ordered him to do—well, Sena just couldn't let that happen.

He knew exactly what would happen to him if he admitted he'd been trying to run, Hiruma would have no choice but to punish him here, publicly. But it was more important to keep his master's secrets. It was his fault he'd gotten out of the elevator in the first place, and been caught. After everything that Hiruma had done for him, it was only a fraction of what he was owed. After everything Sena had done wrong, it would be only a fraction of what he had coming to him. 

"I-I'm sorry, master," he said, clearly, so anyone watching could hear. "I saw a chance, so I ran. Marco caught me."

He didn't need to fake the tremor in his voice; it was easy to slip back into that terror. Free men standing around him, while he cowered at his master's feet, awaiting the inevitable. When Musashi had hinted at what he'd gone through here, only a few words had been enough to paint a picture for Sena. He had more than enough experiences of his own to vividly shade in the detail. 

"He seems to make a habit of this, doesn't he?" Marco said, sounding awfully close.

An even more horrible thought occurred to him. What if Hiruma really thought Sena had been trying to escape again? He had no reason to be on that floor. He was still serving out the punishment for his last attempt, if Hiruma even suspected Sena was trying again—

A touch fell on his head, and he flinched, hard, against Hiruma's leg. But the hand only stroked through his hair, and Sena felt himself start to breathe again. He was starting to get used to these reassurances of Hiruma's. His master wouldn't pet him like this if he really thought the worst. He wouldn't be unnecessarily cruel, after a touch like this. 

Sena reminded himself that things were different now. Hiruma needed him in good condition, physically. Hiruma might not even be too angry with him, once he found out Sena had accomplished his mission. Whatever he needed to do, he would get it over with, and later, Sena would be able to explain himself. Somehow.

A sudden movement made Sena look up, though a good slave would probably have kept his gaze down. Hiruma had taken a water pitcher from a side table, chattering with ice. Sena remembered the cold touch tracing along his forehead, but Hiruma didn't dump it on him, instead pouring some into a dish, and setting it down in front of him. 

"Drink," he said. 

On closer look, it wasn't a dish, but an ashtray. Sena almost used his hands, but caught himself in time. Holding them stiffly against his back, it was hard to lean over without losing his balance, but he wasn't new to this, not by a long shot. Carefully, taking as much time as he dared, he lowered his head, bending at the waist, and began to lap it with his tongue. He had played these kinds of games before, with similar audiences, but it was more humiliating now, somehow. Maybe it had been too long, he'd gotten complacent. At least the water tasted clean—maybe Hiruma had wiped the ashtray. Maybe he was just thirsty.

"That's how you punish your slave?" said someone else at the table. "By giving him water?"

A hand landed on Sena's shoulder, not to knock of him off balance, or make the task harder, but just to keep him steady. "A slave this good doesn't need punishment," said his master. Despite himself, Sena warmed a little at the praise.

"A runaway slave is good?" said Marco, skeptical.

Hiruma gave a shocking burst of laughter. "That's just one of his fucking quirks. He's so fast, you can't keep him contained. You better watch out on the field, you fucking eyelashes."

"If it's restraints you need, you know we can help with that," Marco said. From the corner came Gaou's unmistakably loud growl, and the whole room went briefly silent. 

Hiruma grabbed Sena by the collar and pulled him up, and Sena went with it before he could be choked. His face was still dripping, but he didn't dare move his hands to wipe it off. 

"You know what I can't fucking understand?" Hiruma said. "Why you're here telling me how to discipline my slave, when your fucking caveman tore up an entire room."

Marco was indeed sitting at the table with them now, cigar in hand. He took an amused puff, around the curl in his lip. "Gaou spent the first twenty years of his life chained up. He was a model for our stores—if the chains will work on a slave this big, that kind of thing. A pure waste of talent. So I made him a deal. He sticks with me as long as he can keep crushing strong opponents. In return, he'll never do anything that would merit getting put back in those chains. Keep in mind, breaking things—furniture, walls, pesky enemy quarterbacks—doesn't count as misbehaving."

"So you can't control him," Hiruma concluded. He had found a cloth napkin sometime during that story, and Sena felt a vague unease as it came toward him. Under the circumstances, he could only expect to be gagged or suffocated with it. But Hiruma just held him firmly in place, and wiped his sopping chin. 

They had lost some of their audience while Marco was rambling, and the both of them seemed well aware of it. The gazes that they traded were less sharp; words, too. "Then they're the same," Marco laughed. "You let your slave run wild, I'll let mine break what he likes. Uncontrollable speed or unrestrained power, we'll see which serves us better on the field."

Hiruma finished wiping Sena's face, and pulled it down onto his lap. Sena shuffled forward accommodatingly, until he could almost relax into the hold. 

It was going to be okay. All that was being asked of him was that he prove his obedience. 

Thankfully, that was all he wanted to do in the first place.

***

Sena didn't know what signal made Hiruma eventually fold his cards onto the table and gesture that they were leaving. They made their last rounds, Sena following silently at Hiruma's heel, trying not to look as woozy and weak as he felt. They picked up Hiruma's coat from Toby, and returned Sena's tag, before riding in silence back down to the lobby. 

In the parking lot, Hiruma took him to the trunk of his car. Briefly, Sena wondered if he was going to be placed into it, but when it opened, he saw that it was crammed full of mysterious bags and packages; he probably wouldn't have fit anyway. 

From one of these boxes, Hiruma pulled out a blanket in a rusty orange, and wrapped Sena in it, shoulders to ankles. Then he led Sena to the back seat of the car, where he held the door open, and said, "Lie down."

Clutching the blanket to himself, Sena crawled in, feet first, and laid himself out across the back seat. He looked up uncertainly, to see if this was what Hiruma had meant, and the only correction Hiruma saw fit to make was to tug the blanket more firmly over his shoulders. It was heavier than it looked, rough and scratchy, but it offered much needed warmth, and there was a comforting weight to it. Not unlike his master. 

As Hiruma drew back to shut the door, Sena felt a sudden, powerful urge to reach out, to grasp for him—but he didn't dare. Instead he said, "Master?" and it was enough to make Hiruma pause. 

"I... I got it," he continued, to fill in the sudden expectant silence. After all that, the last thing he wanted was for his master to think he hadn't done his job. He dug in his pocket, and handed over the keycard and flashdrive. 

A beat, and then Hiruma snorted. "I never thought you wouldn't, shrimp." As he reached out to take them, Sena boldly pressed a kiss to the back of Hiruma's hand, right where he had after his previous disobedience. Hopefully Hiruma would take it for the apology that it was. 

Hiruma didn't respond, but then, he hadn't the last time either. He took the items, and lightly bumped Sena's cheek with his knuckle. 

"Sleep," he said, and closed the door on him. 

And as the car started to move under him, Sena tucked his face into the blanket, and slept. 


	47. Angles and things

On the ride over, Atsumi went through everything he knew about the Zokugaku Chameleons. It wasn't a very long list, so he had time to go through it twice. 

A depressingly large amount of it involved their captain, Habashira, getting into fights with other players, with his own players, with the referee—pretty much anyone who looked at him funny was prone to getting lashed by his particularly long tongue, or worse. And those were only the tournament-related incidents. Atsumi had no idea what their gang got up to outside of football.

Despite what he had said to Sena, he couldn't help but feel a little on edge about it all. Even the act of putting on a motorcycle helmet, feeling the odd crush of it against his hair, and sliding onto the purring vehicle, behind the man that now owned him, all of it was unsettling and foreign. 

It wasn't that he wanted to stay with Bando, by any means, and Yuuhi clearly had no place for him and his team anymore, but...

But he couldn't help it. There was a part of him that had always thought, if they trained hard enough, did well enough, they would one day be accepted into the Yuuhi fold. Celebrated like its other teams, if they could make football yet one more sport that Yuuhi excelled at. In the meantime, they didn't lack for facilities, even if they were hand-me-down ones. They had their share of the practice fields and weight rooms, and a comfortable corner of the slave dorms to themselves. Maybe there wasn't much budget for football-specific gear, but there was the feeling that Yuuhi was a company that knew how to run its slaves.

Zokugaku was...

Well...

Sometime in his musing, they had split from the rest of the gang, and it was just the two of them now, buzzing through the back streets. A couple sharp corners took them into a decrepit neighborhood fronted with run-down houses, each crammed tightly into its neighbor, like chipped and crooked teeth. 

Atsumi had never seen—nor smelled—such a place before. What modest yards the buildings boasted were boxed in with chain-link fence. Barefoot children darted across the street, heedless of the motorcycle bearing down on them. One group of them recognized Habashira, even through his helmet, and ran alongside them for a few paces, delightedly crowing, "Lizard man! Lizard man!" until they couldn't keep up. 

They ended up at a shack that looked no different from the others, but when the door on the attached garage lifted, it was to reveal a space much bigger than it seemed from the outside, extending farther back than it had any right to. 

Stiffly, he got off the motorcycle, returned his helmet, and made himself useful pulling the garage door back down. It was never too early to start earning brownie points. 

He followed Habashira into the rest of the place, which was also more spacious than he expected; it must have wrapped around behind the adjacent buildings. The largest room bore several shredded, ugly couches, folding tables around the edges, and a tacky floor that sucked at his shoes until they both stopped in the center of the room. 

"The others are at the school." 

It was the first thing Habashira had said to him, since they left the stadium. Away from the crowd, and the others, his voice was surprisingly mellow. He threw his keys haphazardly into a bowl on one of the tables, making it rattle around like a top. "I'll get you settled, then we'll go."

"Settled" sounded ominous, but Atsumi nodded. Not knowing what else to do, he slid his bag off his shoulder, into the crook of his elbow—to show willing, if not direction. Juri had made sure he took at least a change of clothes with him. No one would come looking for it, she had promised, and he believed her. 

Come to think of it, "school" was a little ominous too. What business did these ruffians have with kids? Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Habashira paused, in the process of pulling a bunch of wires out from under his shirt, and squinted at him. "You got a problem with us?"

"No," said Atsumi, and then, "No, sir." Even if he did, it would have been extremely stupid for him to say as much.

Habashira held his gaze another beat, and then ripped out all the wires with one particularly hard yank. He threw the handful onto the table with his keys, and took a step closer. For some reason, _his_ shoes didn't seem to be sticking to the floor. 

"Some of my guys had space, so some of your guys went home with them."

Atsumi let that sink in, but not too far. Once his footing was more secure here, he'd have to see what he could do for them. For now, he was standing in a beer puddle with nothing but a duffel bag to his name. He settled on another short nod. 

"You'll have to sleep here. Pick a corner, take some couch cushions if you want. You want a beer before we go?"

Atsumi turned this offer over, and could make no sense of it. "Have you ever owned a slave before?" he said, before he could stop himself. He'd always been too candid for his own good. At least he hadn't said something like, "I'm already standing in one."

"Of course we have," Habashira snapped. "Nine of them." 

Atsumi's teammates, in other words. Former teammates. No one else. 

"Of course," Atsumi repeated, and received a shove for his efforts, a sharp one, to his chest. Automatically, he dropped his bag out of harm's way, and put his arms down at his sides: open, unresisting. 

"Does this look like the kind of neighborhood where people can afford to own each other?"

"You clearly have money now." Not lifting his arms, Atsumi nodded at the ground at his feet, indicating his own presence.

"Yeah, so nine. And you make ten." Habashira shoved him again, but it was more of a tap this time, as if counting him.

"I see," and Atsumi. Then, feeling he had to make up for some lost ground, he tried, "I spoke out of turn."

"Look," Habashira kicked Atsumi's bag into a nearby corner, which he supposed meant that was was his bunk now. "It's hard to get ahead in this game with just free players. People don't want to practice. People don't want to get hurt. Slaves are cheap."

Atsumi nodded grimly. He had seen his listing price, and been dismayed. Then he had seen his teammates', and his heart had broken. They had not been priced to encourage their purchasers to treat them with care. But in the brief time he'd seen them today, he hadn't noticed obvious signs of abuse, not yet. 

"I've seen the way you guys play, too. There's potential. You do your best for us, and we'll do right by you. Got it?"

"I got it," Atsumi affirmed, though Habashira's definition of "right" remained to be seen. "We can do that."

***

The school looked marginally better kept than the other buildings around it, and only then because frequent foot traffic had rubbed the main thoroughfare shiny, and prevented trash and debris from gathering quite so badly. The broken sign hung at the entrance read, "Zokuto High School," and was tagged with graffiti that suspiciously resembled a hissing lizard, with a long, curled tongue. 

They pulled up next to a bunch of other bikes, and walked down the grassy slope to a field more yellow than green. Habashira's guys and Atsumi's former team were running drills together, or as together as they could be, with a clear dividing line between them. The two groups had naturally separated, like oil lifting from water, not to mention one side was obviously working harder than the other. When he saw Habashira and Atsumi coming, Haibara coughed loudly, and the former Yuuhi Guts perked up even more.

In contrast, some of the Chameleons were already lounging on the bleachers. One of them reached for his drink, and yelped—there was a sudden sharp motion at Atsumi's side, and then Habashira's butterfly knife was sticking out of the bottle, inches from the reclining Chameleon's thumb.

"You could've taken my hand off!" he complained, smacking it away, knife and all. Water gushed out of the split bottle, marking a wet spiral on the ground as it spun.

"I meant to." Habashira stormed over, and pulled his man up by two fistfuls of uniform. "We got fresh blood. You're going to give a bad impression."

Not sure what to do, Atsumi went to the Yuuhi side of the field. He wanted to check in on his team, but after that display, now didn't seem like the time. Besides, they weren't really his anymore; best to get used to that idea early. 

He settled on some familiar nods, short greetings, before he got to the end of the row, and shrugged off his jacket. Stretches first. He sat down and began to work on his hamstrings, which were usually his worst. As he bent over his ankles, he found himself watching the drama unfold between Habashira and his subordinate, in still frames, every time he came up—

The man trying to push Habashira off. 

Habashira with his fist cocked. 

Habashira with the glint of his knife back in his hand.

The last time Atsumi sat up, an unexpected movement caught his eye, and suddenly, like an optical illusion revealing itself, he saw that the bleachers were not as empty as he'd thought. There were a number of eyes peeking up between the rows of seats—children, hiding beneath the metal slats of benches and footrests. One caught his gaze and smiled impishly, putting a finger to her lips, before ducking away.

Atsumi felt his earlier unease return. Gangsters and children, it seemed like a bad mix. If the knife Habashira had thrown earlier had gone off course, it could easily have hit that girl. 

He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the team—the formerly Yuuhi part of the team, anyway—was still hard at work. Minami and Akaboshi were getting out cones for agility drills, and Atsumi went to help, and then to join in. 

For all that the hideout had been a mess, Zokugaku's equipment had the feel of being fresh and new. The cones were still bright orange, and had a new, plasticky smell to them. He'd walked past the row of tackling dummies on the way over, and hadn't spotted any duct tape or other jury rigging holding them together. He guessed that the gang had recently come into some money, and purchased slaves and equipment both. The equipment was in better condition than the slaves, to be honest, but that wouldn't stop him from feeling a weak ebb of pleasure at getting to use things not crumbling apart under his touch. 

In wordless silence, they worked together to set up the cones in rows. The layout, the proximity, the easy comradery, it was all utterly familiar, no matter which field they were standing on, and Atsumi could almost pretend that nothing had changed. When it was done, he accepted a resistance band from Minami, and pulled it up over his knees. About to begin, he felt Habashira's eyes on him, and paused. No order came to stop, though, so he began to shuffle through the course, side to side through each row, and then turned around to come back the other way, straining against the band. 

When he made it back to the start, Habashira had a band of his own stretched over his knees. To their surprise, he gamely did the same course, and by the time he was done, the other Chameleons had all trickled over, with various degrees of reluctance, to join in. They alternated, Guts and Chameleons, and before long the pace had picked up, and they were all shouting and grunting at each other. Even if half of it was complaints and jeers, it was better than the standoffish silence they had before.

"If you fuckers hate playing with new teammates, you know who to blame!" Habashira yelled, as he finished one drill, ripping off his band. "We got a practice match against Deimon coming up, and I was _specially_ told not to hold back. You want revenge? Then train up, so we can crush them!"

It wasn't really the brand of motivation that Atsumi would have used, but Habashira knew his audience. A roar went up amongst the Chameleons, and even Haibara and Minami cheered with them.

"What?" said Haibara, at Atsumi's incredulous look. "Just getting into the spirit."

After practice, Atsumi gingerly swung onto Habashira's motorcycle again. "Did you know there were kids watching the whole time?" he said.

"They were supposed to be doing their homework," Habashira said. 

"You... know them?"

"Whose field do you think it is?" Habashira scoffed. "We all came up through this school. We still use the fields for practice, and we keep out other punks who think it's fun to mess up high schoolers."

"Are they looking to join your... group?" said Atsumi carefully.

"They can't roll with us until they graduate, that's the rule." Sensing Atsumi's surprise, Habshira elbowed him, a sharp backwards jab, as he kicked the bike forward. "If they can't do something that basic, how are they going to pull their weight with us?"

***

They were obviously two teams, and did nothing to pretend otherwise. Habashira watched from the sidelines as they attempted to form a huddle, but made two awkward clumps instead. Atsumi was doing that thing where he went down the line of his team, offering a word here, a pat there. When he finished, he tried to continue onto the Chameleons, and was instantly rebuffed. Hebii, the closest—and tallest—glowered down at Atsumi like a bull staring down fly. Atsumi gamely skipped over him, and continued on.

"Getting along like a house on fire, aren't they?" said Hiruma, wandering over.

"Why don't you worry about your own team," Habashira snapped. "Have good luck at the dinner?" He and the general public wouldn't get to see the bracket until closer to the start of nationals, but from the way Hiruma's face tightened, he was about to get some tidbits here.

"That fucking toothless Oujou coach," Hiruma said. "He drew first match against Hakushuu, his pet put on the waterworks, and they made us redo the whole fucking thing."

"Huh." Habashira filed this away. The Hakushuu Dinosaurs were that scary? Next year, he promised himself, there would be a different lizard on top.

Hiruma grunted. "Can't blame them. Those fucking dinosaurs. Already put six fucking players in the hospital, just at regionals—and I know that fucking eyelashes, he was trying to hide their strength at the start, too. Fucking Oujou should have cried their way to meeting them at finals. That's their best chance of healing it off, before the Christmas Bowl."

"They just didn't want to play Hakushuu at all."

Hiruma only returned this perfectly reasonable statement with a blank look. "What are you talking about, fucking lizard? If you want to win, you gotta play them eventually."

Of course Hiruma had no outcome in mind except winning the whole thing. Never mind that Shinryuuji had won for the past however many years running. 

"Enjoy your broken bones," he muttered, but the other captain didn't respond. One of the Deimon players was heading over, in a #16 jersey—but at an agonizingly slow pace, like he hoped they might be taken away by the earth's rotation before he even got there. 

"What do you want, fucking baldy?" said Hiruma. The player did have an enormous forehead, way bigger than his hairline's ability to contain it. 

#16 squared up his chest, as if trying to puff up his courage with it. "Will I be playing today? It's just a practice game. I could use practice."

"Just a practice game?" Hiruma reached over, and #16 tightened his jaw, but didn't flinch. Smart kid—Hiruma always pounced on weakness. He managed to hold himself straight, at least until Hiruma slapped him hard on the back, puffing the breath out of his lungs. "No fucking thing, we always play to win."

"So... that's a no." 

"Don't like it? You can fucking leave." Hiruma's gaze swept over to the rest of his team, and fell on his runner and receiver. "Nothing's stopping you."

#16 followed his eyes, and his meaning too. "I won't," he said firmly, and Hiruma grinned. Most would have run away screaming at that grin, but #16 only seemed more determined in the face of it.

"Good. I have special training in mind for you." Hiruma shifted his hand on #16's back, pushing down until he could sling his arm over the taller player's shoulder. #16 stiffened, but allowed himself to be led away. "You think you've been in hell, you fucking baldy, but you haven't tasted the half of it. I'll make you cry, wishing for your accounting job again..."

***

Sena's punishment was officially over, but for the better part of a week, he had still stuck as close to his master as he'd been allowed. He didn't have to, but it just seemed like a good idea, and he couldn't shake the sense that, as long as he had his master watching, he couldn't step too badly out of line. Again.

A football match made that impossible—at first because the game forced them apart, and soon because there was too much else going on for him to devote much energy to worrying. The Chameleons were every bit as brutal as he would have expected from their brief encounter, all of forever ago, when Habashira had squeezed his shoulder hard enough to bruise. They weren't limiting themselves to a shoulder grab today, and if it weren't for Kurita and the rest of the line, Sena felt sure he would have long ago been ground into the dirt. 

By the time the halftime whistle blew, he felt worn and battered. For all that it was just a practice game, Hiruma insisted that they do things the official way, and that meant the same timings and breaks. He'd even managed to scrounge up referees from somewhere, though they looked much less happy to be here than the ones at the actual tournament.

Now Hiruma was off with Kurita, jamming his elbow up into the larger man's back. At first Sena thought it was in anger, but then he spotted Musashi helping alongside, and didn't know what to make of it. 

Mysterious as it was, he wanted nothing more than to go to his master now. He even started in their direction, until Monta caught him by the hand, and pressed a water bottle into it. With one last helpless glance over, Sena allowed himself to be dragged the opposite direction, to the bleachers. The two of them collapsed, a few rows up, and Sena took a long gulp from the bottle. As he set it back down, he nearly hit someone's head with it—someone who'd popped up between the two of them, from underneath their seats.

"Ah!" He was too tired to do more than let out a small cry of surprise, and scoot down along the bench. 

Monta, on the other hand, jumped three full rows upwards, pointing and screeching like he'd seen a scurrying rat. "What is that?"

A kid's head emerged fully from the gap, and then the rest of him, pushing himself up on his arms until he could crawl up next to Sena. 

"What do you mean, 'what is that'?" the kid said. "I'm not a what, you monkey!"

"I'm not a monkey!" 

"Uh, hold on," Sena said quickly, waving his hands in between them. "I think Monta meant, uh, _who_ is that?"

"Torakichi," said the kid, still scowling. "Oh, and if Habashira asks, I'm definitely doing my homework." 

As he waved his booklet at Sena, none too convincingly, his pencil fell out of it, hit the bleachers, and rolled away. Monta was instantly there to snap it up, two turns from tipping over the edge. Before he handed it back, he gave Torakichi a suspicious look. "That still doesn't tell us what you're doing here."

"I'm homeless, I live here."

"Seriously?" Monta's jaw dropped.

"No, genius. This is my high school. See the homework? Are you sure you're not a monkey?" 

Sena and Monta exchanged glances. Sena hoped his was placating. Monta looked ready to snap. 

"Sorry we're taking up your field," Sena offered.

"Huh? Oh, nah, the Chameleons can use it whenever. We all come to watch, they know they can't stop us."

At the word "all", Sena and Monta both simultaneously looked down. Sure enough, a dozen eyes blinked up at them from the dark space under the bleachers. This time, Sena jumped to his feet too. There was something deeply uncomfortable about knowing that he was walking around on top of a bunch of high school students.

"Normally they don't let us hang near them, but they can't kick us out of our own school!"

"Why would you want to?" Monta said.

Torakichi sat down between them, crossing his arms. "They said we can't join up until we graduate, but I think it's pointless. I could be rolling with them now, making dough, instead of learning trig. I bet none of you ever needed it again, did you? In the real world?"

He waved the booklet at Sena, who dutifully took it for a closer look. There were shapes and symbols drawn on there that he couldn't begin to make sense of. 

"Geometry is super important for catching—" Monta was saying, at the same time that Sena began, "I-I don't know what this is—"

They both stopped short.

"You've never seen this stuff?" Monta demanded.

"What are you, stupid or something?" said Torakichi. 

Monta, who just a moment ago seemed to be thinking the same thing, rounded on the student. "Hey, watch it! You can't go around calling my friend stupid. Apologize!"

Torakichi looked taken aback, but rallied. "That's just what I was saying anyway, it's not important." But he did look a little shaken. He snatched the book back, as if determined not to end up as ignorant as Sena.

"I said, apologize!" Monta insisted, and Sena put a placating hand on his arm. 

"It's okay," he said, and it was. He had just realized what Monta had called him, and it made him flush warm. He had never made a friend before, not as a slave. "Um, Torakichi, you like football too? What position do you play?"

"I bet he wants to be a pro receiver, like me!" Monta said. He threw the pencil twirling into the air, and demonstrated a low catch. "You're going to need to learn all those, er, angles and things for sure!"

Torakichi scoffed. "I do want to be a receiver," he said, "But not like you, monkey. Like Sakuraba!"

"Sakuraba?" said Sena, mystified. "You don't mean..."

"Yeah, the actor," Torakichi's eyes gleamed. "You didn't know? He used to be Oujou's star receiver! Look!" He ducked back down under the bleachers, and came up with a backpack. Out came a fanbook, pages bulging with loose trading cards, flyers, and other memorabilia that fluttered out as he paged through. He carefully caught each piece and tucked it back in as he went. The pages and the flyers were all yellowed with age, and crinkled as he turned them. 

"All the kids at my old school were into him. Well, mostly girls, but that's your in, you know what I'm saying?"

Sena nodded uncertainly, while Monta's eyes widened.

"Everyone here likes the Chameleons, but whatever. I'm a lifelong fan! I saw him make this amazing catch. No one thought he could do it, but he just jumped up and—pow!"

"The ball doesn't go 'pow' when you catch it!" said Monta.

As the two of them squabbled, Sena stared at the fanbook, lying open on a picture of Sakuraba, in an Oujou uniform, caught mid-stride. If he was posing for the camera, it wasn't obvious. He could have just been jogging for the ball, and happened to glance over his shoulder. Strangely, he looked older in that faded photograph than he did now, in person.

Sena didn't understand much about the situation, about what Sakuraba meant to Shin, and why he wasn't with the team anymore. What he did understand, intimately, was the all-important need for a slave to have value. If Sakuraba had so many fans while he was playing for Oujou, fans that were still carrying his pictures around to this day, wasn't that value? 

"Torakichi," he said suddenly. Though the other two looked close to coming to blows, they both stopped at the sound of his voice. "Do you think I could... borrow this?"

"What?" Torakichi scooped the book up into his arms, with the indignant motions of one who took it for granted that his things rightly belonged to him. "You're joking."

"I... I..." Sena floundered, and then blurted, "I'll get you an autograph!"

"From Sakuraba? He doesn't hang out with the Oujou team anymore, you know." 

Sena winced. A slave had no power to promise much of anything, and he definitely wasn't supposed to be deciding to do things on his own like this. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, it was just that when he opened his mouth, what happened to come out was, "I can do it." 

He glanced over to his master, hoping for reassurance. Instead, he saw Kurita prone on the field, Hiruma and Musashi both stomping on his back. Hiruma looked a little too happy to be doing it, and Komusubi was running over, arms outstretched.

Still, Hiruma had allowed him to earn one favor already: he was going to get back to training with Shin soon. Even if his master ultimately said no, it would probably be okay to ask, Sena thought, against the squeeze of anxiety that rose within him at the thought. He would just ask.

"Well, you'd better not lose a single thing in there!" Torakichi reluctantly handed it over. "Otherwise I'll get Habashira to come beat you up!"

"They're already beating us up," Sena said, with a weak smile. 

Just then, the whistle blew, signaling the end of halftime. He took the fanbook carefully, and followed Monta off the bench. 

It was time to go get beat up some more.


	48. The trouble with Shin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't think I was going to be able to get a chapter out this week (and what a week it's been!), but a lovely anon sent me a lovely fanart, and then the amazing Merr proceeded to write an inspired work, about Atsumi and the Chameleons! 
> 
> I was so honored and flabbergasted that I tore off and hastily polished up the first half of my WIP chapter, and here I am posting it, just so I can include links for everyone to see. 
> 
> [Fanart!](https://yelpfic.tumblr.com/post/627025512448114688/fanart-for-once-a-runner)
> 
> [Soapy Root Beer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026534) by [Merr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merrr/pseuds/Merrr)
> 
> Please go check out these incredible and generous creations, and show them some much-deserved love. 

The rattling of the bus was hard on Sena's teeth. 

Kurita said he took it every day, or almost, and even he was jittering where he sat, leaned up against the window, making it squeak and clatter in its latch. 

Then there came a lurch, and the loud hiss of brakes. Sena belatedly grabbed for the pole in front of him, barely managing to brace his arm against it before he met it with his face. But even after they came to a stop, Kurita's body beside him continued to tremor, like a subtle earthquake, so maybe it had nothing to do with the motion of the bus after all.

"Um... thanks for taking me," Sena said, easing himself back into a sitting position. He wasn't sure if his tentative voice would be heard over all the noise: the idling engine, the chatter of people squeezing past each other up and down the aisle, the traffic rushing by outside. Around the hunched curve of Kurita's shoulder, he caught a glimpse through the window of even more people, lined up to get on. "I'd be really lost, if you weren't here..."

Sena trailed off, feeling dumb. It was a direct ride to the park where he'd meet Shin for training—hard to get lost. But there was something overwhelming about the bustle of so many bodies around him, all crammed full of their own plans and ambitions, all crammed in turn into one big metal box, all itching to burst out in every direction at the earliest opportunity.

"Don't mention it," said Kurita, without much inflection. He was staring out the window too, but with eyes unfocused, like whatever he was looking at was an unfathomable distance away. "The park is on my way to work, anyway. It's nice that you're training so hard."

Instinct told Sena to hold his tongue. No one had gifted him that particular lesson; it was one he'd absorbed deeply and naturally, over many painful experiences. But Kurita had never been anything but kind, to him or to anyone else, and so he wet his lip and guessed, "Are you... nervous about nationals?"

"Nervous?" The face that Kurita turned on him was a cheerful rictus. The whites of his luminous eyes could have reflected terror, or excitement. "Why would I be nervous? We've never made it this far before. This is great. I'm really, really... really looking forward to it."

"Ah..."

"I just stayed up too late, watching Hakushuu matches. Did you know Gaou sent six players to the hospital already? Almost every quarterback from every team they've played. I watched them all. Maybe I shouldn't have done that, Hiruma came and yelled at me. I don't know what he did with the tapes." Here, Kurita finally paused for breath, as the bus grunted into motion again. "Maybe it's good I watched them all already, then?"

Sena had backed further and further into the aisle, as though pushed by the stream of consciousness washing over him. By the time it ebbed to thoughtful silence, he was nearly out of his seat.

"But..." He tried to think what Hiruma would say now. Was this why he hadn't let them see the bracket from regionals in advance? It was beginning to seem like a smart decision. "We don't even know if we'll be playing them at all, right? Maybe Seibu will knock them out?"

"Right," said Kurita, flat and unconvinced. "Right."

"Um... maybe we should... focus on the good stuff? You've always wanted to go to the Christmas Bowl, right? Is there something special you want to ask for? For the, the, Christmas Miracle, thing?"

And all of a sudden, Kurita stopped vibrating, like a car with its engine cut. "Oh," he said, "There... is. But I don't know if I will. That's just a tradition, you know? It's just for fun."

Sena nodded uncertainly, though Kurita wasn't looking at him.

"You couldn't ask for anything big, and expect to get it." Kurita rubbed his palms on his thighs, thick fingers splayed wide and rigid, like starfish. "Last year, Ikkyu asked a girl to go out with him." 

"What did she say?" Sena tried to encourage the conversation. Kurita still looked tense, but in a different, wistful sort of way. At least he wasn't shaking anymore.

"What did who say?"

"Uh... sorry, I thought you said, there was a girl?"

"Oh, no, it was just, any girl." Kurita nodded to himself, as his hands came to a stop. "They didn't approve that."

"What would you want to ask for?" Sena said. "If we win, I mean."

"Oh, I don't know." The giant seemed almost shy, as he peered down at his lap. "Maybe to play with everyone, but I guess I already get to do that." The thought seem to drain the tension right out of him, and something closer to a real smile crossed his face. Before long, he managed to fall asleep like that, head wedged against the seat in front of him, no longer troubled by the jerky motions of the bus at all.

***

Sena had been nervous about missing his stop, but Kurita woke with surprising precision, right as they pulled up, and insisted on getting off with him. 

"Hiruma told me to wait with you," he said, watching his bus roll away. "I can always catch the next one."

Kurita helped him put his bag and jacket into one of the public lockers, and produced a coin for the deposit (along with several candies, a packet of beef jerky, and somehow, from a particularly deep pocket, an entire loaf of bread). The coin went into a slot in the locker, releasing the key, which Sena pocketed, while Kurita unwrapped a handful of lollipops and popped them all in his mouth at once. Sticks bristling in every direction from his lips, he showed Sena a new stretch that involved standing on one leg and swinging the other, in front and then behind. 

On one particularly hard swing, Sena nearly kicked right into an innocent bystander—who caught his heel neatly in one palm.

"I've kept you waiting," said Shin, releasing Sena's leg. He pulled down the hood of his usual sweatshirt, revealing slightly mussed hair and a flush on his cheek, from the cold, or from his run over. He hadn't changed a bit since the end of regionals, but then again, Sena wasn't sure why he expected otherwise—it had only been a few weeks since they'd last trained together. It felt like longer. 

"No, not at all, we were early," Sena mumbled, "the bus schedule," while Kurita offered a lollipop. 

"Let's not waste time," Shin said curtly, and turned back the way he came. Sena hastily waved Kurita goodbye, and sprinted to catch up.

"Is it really okay for you to still be training me?" he said, as they hit the start of today's trail. Shin had picked the one that looped around the edges of the park, sparsely lined with white-barked trees. Most of the leaves had already fallen to carpet the ground a brilliant crimson, and the branches passing to either side of them stuck up bare and brittle into the sky. "We're going to be playing against each other in the first match, and all."

It had been a while since they'd run together, but even without looking, Sena could sense Shin's surprise. It was in his posture, the slight hiccup in his otherwise implacable stride. "We're training each other," he said, like it was obvious. "I've improved a great deal, thanks to these sessions."

"Oh!" Sena flushed. "I-I'm glad."

"Yes. I'm looking forward to our rematch. I've been looking forward to it a long time." 

Was that a dig at the rematch they should have had at regionals, if Sena hadn't failed? He couldn't be sure, but he offered a small, "Sorry," just in case. He was glad they were playing each other right from the start this time—there was no way for him to mess that one up.

Oujou had been the first opponents he'd ever faced; running against Shin, the first time he'd felt the thrill of real competition, of pushing himself to his limits to reach a goal. Back then, he'd barely known what football was, or what his role on the team would be. So much had changed, but one thing stayed the same: every time he scored a touchdown, it felt like that first time all over again, exhilarating and affirming and utterly indescribable. 

Their run took them over a wooden bridge that spanned a dry creek bed. The trees were denser on the other side, the trail dimmer. They came to junction, and Shin pointed them toward the left side, uphill. 

"It's in my own self interest to make sure you're at your best for the match," he said. "I wouldn't be able to redeem myself otherwise."

"Redeem—what?" Sena sputtered, and came to a stop. Caught himself, and hastily started up again. "But, but, we lost! If anything, I'm the one who has to redeem myself!"

Shin half turned, and slowed slightly, for Sena to catch up. The corners of his lips had quirked down, which on him was a bewildered frown. 

"You outran me, Sena," he explained patiently, as he might to a child. "No one has ever done that before, nor since."

"But that was just," Sena grasped for it, "just luck."

"Please don't insult me by calling it that," said Shin, and the sudden severity made Sena gulp. "You surpassed me, and never gave me a chance to fight you again."

"I-I... But that's only because I didn't have enough stamina, to play the whole match. That one run basically wiped me out." That and getting kidnapped, but Sena tried not to think about that part. He'd seen how badly Kurita had been shaken up at the prospect of fighting Gaou. Sena wouldn't think about his own monster in the closet, not now, not with Shin in front of him.

"You were malnourished. Untrained. And still you beat me. I want to test myself against you, without those factors. I want to..." Shin faltered, surprised again. "I want to play football."

"That's what I want too." Feeling his face heat in embarrassment, Sena sped up, so that Shin couldn't see, but that was the trouble with Shin—he only sped up too, until they were side by side again. 

For a while, they ran in silence, punctuated by the soft crunch of leaves under their tread. Again, they were the only ones on this trail—maybe in the whole park, for all they knew, with it curtained off by the trees and the shape of the hill. 

"I don't know what Hiruma is thinking," Shin said abruptly, "allowing me to gauge my speed against yours before the match. He's overconfident."

It was obvious to Sena that he was the one getting unfair benefit from their training sessions, not Shin. But he didn't know if he could take another _Please don't insult me,_ not in that forbidding tone. 

"I never thought of it like that," he said instead. It occurred to him that Hiruma's goal wasn't to beat Oujou at all, but to get them strong enough to face Agon and Shinryuuji. But if he couldn't get past Shin, they would never make it to face Shinryuuji at all. For the first time, as their steps pounded in rhythm, Shin's speed felt less admirable, more threatening, and he found himself measuring against the man beside him, who ran with perfect precision, like a flawless machine. He had to take three strides for every two of Shin's. When the time came, would he really be able to outrun someone who outclassed in every way? 

Shin flicked him a questioning look, and Sena realized he'd been staring. Guiltily, he said, "When we get back to the lockers, I brought something to show you."

"Oh?"

"I-it's nothing really. I just thought..." Sena's voice lowered. "Have you talked to Sakuraba lately?" 

"You've seen him?" said Shin sharply. 

"No. I mean, yes, I have, but not that. I was talking to someone, a fan of his."

"Yes, Sakuraba has gained quite a following." There was a surprising bitterness to Shin's tone. 

"From before. He used to play as a receiver, right? On your team? This kid I talked to was a huge fan. He had a book full of photos. Football photos, I mean."

"Why are you telling me this?" Shin's voice had strayed from its normal calm. It was angry. 

He was angry. 

The realization pulled Sena to a stop. Instinct told him to stop pushing, to back off, get away from the situation. He could turn and run the other way—Shin couldn't order him to stay.

Shin stopped as well. "I apologize. I don't talk about this often." There probably wasn't anyone he could tell.

"It meant a lot for you, to have him on the team, didn't it?"

"It meant a lot for him." Shin twitched his shoulders, a minute shrug. "It was certainly better than having him..."

"Having him what?"

Shin huffed out a breath, then stretched, fists on his back. "Let's do another lap before we begin our drills."

"I brought you the book," Sena blurted, before Shin could run off again. "I thought you could show it to your owner. It's got all these signatures—if he saw how many fans Sakuraba had, that he still does, maybe he'd let him play again."

"Play... again." Shin shook his head, like he'd never heard these words together before.

"Or not. Maybe it doesn't make any sense. I just thought, if he had all these fans from football, fans that still care about him years later, that could be even more valuable than acting and, and stuff."

"And stuff," Shin repeated, staring. Sena resisted the urge to look behind him in search of whoever could make Shin gaze at them like that, like he'd seen something extraordinary. "Why? You don't even know anything about him."

"I-it was just a thought—"

"Sena, this—" Shin said, at the same time, then stopped. 

Swept down on one knee, sending up a burst of red leaves, and pulled Sena in, wrapping him up into a full-bodied hug. _"Thank you."_

A kind touch was so rare in Sena's life that he thought he could list every one he'd received, in reverse chronological order, dating back years. Even so, there was something about this contact that made Sena stiffen in shock. 

The unexpectedness of it, from Shin of all people. 

The hard planes of Shin's body, muscle and sinew and sternum, nothing like Mamori's soft embrace, his only real point of comparison. 

His heart was still racing from the run, but now it began to hammer in earnest, thudding heavily in his ears, while the rest of him froze in place.

Sensing his discomfort, Shin quickly released him. Strangely, the backwards motion only highlighted just how close they were, the fabric of their shirts drawing against each other as they parted, their faces so close he could smell the sweat on Shin's skin, count every ridge of his irises—not at all the solid black they'd looked from a distance—feel his hot breath part the cold winter air. 

Immediately, he regretted the loss. His arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, reached out for Shin all on their own. He only meant to step back into the hug, to show that it was wanted, if not something he would have expected in a million years. 

Instead what happened was he grasped Shin behind the head, and pulled him in for a kiss. 

Part him thought, why? 

Part of him thought, _warm_. 

So warm, so soft. Shin was too startled to firm up, to press back. There was none of the demanding pressure Sena associated with kissing, no invasive tongue, no crushing hard lip, just softness. Such a contrast to the firm chest against his, to the rigid tension of the neck under his hand, spine ramrod-straight. 

Then Shin forcibly relaxed, and like a punch to the gut Sena recognized that gesture, because he was intimately familiar with it—from the other side. How many times had he willed the fight out of his limbs, because it was better than the alternative? How many times had he made himself pliant, for someone that he couldn't afford to deny? That Shin felt the need to do that for him—

He jerked backwards, nearly slipped, and just managed to catch himself from falling. 

"I have to go," he said, though there was nowhere to go. His master had explicitly ordered him not to be on his own while he was out, but the thought of running back with Shin—or worse, waiting with him at the bus stop until Kurita came off shift—made him want to shrivel up like the dead leaves under his feet.

Shin studied him, confusion crinkling his brow, and then reached out. The gesture felt calculated, but even so, the way that warm, wide palm cupped his face drew blood rushing to his cheeks. Shin was holding him so very delicately, with such a tiny measure of the strength that those fingers were capable of.

"You know what I'm trained for," said Shin, with a slowness that might almost have been hesitation. "It... bothers you."

"What you're trained—no!" Sena twisted out of Shin's grip, and really did fall over this time, into an ungainly heap. He placed his own hands, cold and clammy, over the heat of his face, as if to ward off others. "That's not what I... I'm so sorry."

Things were clicking now, that really should have fallen in place earlier. Hiruma alluding to Shin being out of practice. Sakuraba with that older woman, and Shin's lack of surprise. He'd assumed that Shin had spent his entire life as an athlete, but you didn't learn reflexes like that playing football. To yield rather than to press. To accept. To submit.

"Then... I overstepped," Shin guessed, backing up into a crouch. 

"No, please, I'm the one who... I did that to you." 

"Did that to me," Shin repeated, blankly. 

It was starting to register that Shin didn't sound particularly disturbed. With faint hope, Sena dared to look up, before he remembered the bigger problem at hand. "My master is going to kill me."

"Literally?" Alarm deepened Shin's frown, and Sena briefly wondered how much Shin knew about his misguided escape attempt.

"I... I don't know." With some surprise, he found he really didn't. 

With any other master, there would have been no doubt in his mind about the consequences of sneaking around behind his master's back, of _kissing someone_ , but Hiruma had done far less, for far worse. Arguably worse. Sena remembered that car ride back from the police station, his value written out in numbers, his master's extraordinary patience. Was that why he'd done such an unthinkable thing? Because he hadn't been disciplined before, not nearly as harshly as he should have been? Because Hiruma had removed the threat of the ultimate punishment, and he couldn't behave himself without it hanging over his head?

"No," he breathed finally, and shivered, rubbing his arms. "Not literally. He's just going to be... really, really angry."

"Because," Shin paused, as if processing, "Hiruma has you reserved for his own use."

"N-nothing like that." It shouldn't have mattered, but for some reason he needed to make it clear. "Whether he uses me or not, I'm still his. You should know that. You shouldn't be— you can't just—"

Shin took a moment to respond, still sounding like he was picking through unfamiliar territory. "It's true that I haven't tested my limits in this respect before." There was the implication that he had never wanted to. "I think... you are more closely monitored than most, as a personal slave. Those on my team, we take our freedoms where we can find them."

"It's not about being monitored!" Sena looked around, as if there really might be someone watching from the trees, but they were alone, as far as he could see. "I, it's, my life isn't mine. I can't be doing things like this. Not that there's any this. I was just—I just wanted to tell you about the book, that's all!"

"I understand that you regret it," Shin said, tightly. "I'm sorry if I had a part in inviting this, existent or not. Shall we put it behind us, and continue training?"

Sena couldn't imagine getting back into it like nothing had happened, but he forced himself to stand. He couldn't change what he'd done, and he wouldn't hide it from his master, he couldn't. But he wouldn't add slacking off at training to his crimes. 

Shin didn't offer him a hand up, which might have been for the best. 


	49. Mind in the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try not to clog this space up with too much of my ramblings, but today I'll make an exception, as we're hitting two big milestones!
> 
> First, we've officially crossed the 100K-word threshold! The longest story I've written before was more like 30K, so this has been a daunting and exhilarating ride for me. I've never devoted quite so much of my free time and cycles to writing something before, and I'm shocked how much it's taken over my brain.
> 
> That's why it's also terrifying to contemplate the second milestone: there's actually an end in sight! You may have noticed that I updated the total chapter count from ? to 53. It's still a very rough estimate, but I have to be honest, the idea that there's a finite number, and one so imminent, really put me into a funk recently. Writing this fic for the past several months has been a huge, huge part of my life outside work, and I'm honestly a little scared to let go! But I do have a particular ending in mind; I'll tell the story I planned to tell, rather than drag things out unnecessarily. 
> 
> And, as if this author's note weren't excessively long enough already, I wanted to once again thank all of you for reading. Every engagement, from a simple hit, to your life-giving comments (to art and fic?? how did I get so lucky?), has encouraged and motivated me. I set out fully expecting to wallow alone in my shameless self-indulgence, and it's been such a joy and a surprise to have you along. Thank you!

"I'll fucking kill him," was the first thing Hiruma said, and Sena felt his heart literally stutter in his chest.

He'd already been a trembling mess by the time he brought his confession to a stammering end, but for all the possibilities he had come up with on the jog home, reality was worse.

His master was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop again; it seemed to be the only place he existed these days, and the array of mismatched, coffee-stained mugs at his elbow suggested he'd existed there for quite a while.

Sena stood before him, hugging to his chest a giant glass vase, filled to brimming with an elaborate floral arrangement in funereal whites. The flowers shook with him, shivering pale petals all over the flower. He'd have to sweep them up later, if he lived that long. 

"I'm serious," Hiruma snarled, and tried to drink from one of the cups, then the next, before realizing they were all cold or dry. "That fucking drive got me all sorts of good fucking dirt. I'll murder him a million times over, and make him beg for more."

It took several tries before Sena managed to make sound come out of his sandpaper-dry throat. "Please, master," he said, "Please. Shin didn't— It was me— Please—"

Hiruma's gaze, which had been ranging furiously around the room as though seeking a target, abruptly fell on Sena, and fixed. Sharpened. 

Target acquired. 

Sena braced himself, but instead of yelling, Hiruma's eyes dipped downward, to the vase. "More of those stinking flowers?"

Caught off guard, Sena looked down at them, as if he'd never seen them before. "Th-there's more, outside. A lot more."

The deliveries had been coming nonstop since the dinner; today he'd come home to another shipment, this time blanketing the entire doorstep. They'd stopped checking for a tag after the first batch, but from Hiruma's mutterings, Sena gathered this was something Marco was known for. Clutching the cold glass to his chest put Sena in mind of clutching the ice bucket in the elevator, Marco leaning over him, predatory and all too close. And this was only one of many—the rest were still out there, turning their yard into an idyllic, mournful meadow. 

Hiruma put out a hand, and Sena hastily shuffled close enough that his master could pull out one of the blooms, heedless of the others that were dragged along with it. As the others fell to the floor, he turned his over in his fingers, thorny stem dripping water, inspecting it closely—and then bit the head right off. 

"Master??" Sena said. 

Hiruma chewed, chewed, swallowed. Made a face at the remnants of the flower. "You asked him to kiss you," he said accusingly, to the giant bite taken out of it. 

Bewildered, Sena shook his head. "N-no, I mean I, I k-k—" 

"That's why you wanted to start training with him again." He nibbled another petal. "That's why you had that fucking book to show him. Some kind of mating ritual, for football robots."

"No!" The vase was suddenly too heavy in his numb yet sweat-slippery hands. He set it down before it could slip, and knelt over it—this close, the flowers really did reek. On shaking limbs, he crawled around them, to plant his face at Hiruma's bare feet, touching his forehead to one bony arch. "I _swear_ , master. I swear I didn't mean to do any of it. I know I belong to you. I swear." 

"But you did. And here you are telling me about it. Because..." There came a wet, repeated touch to the back of his neck—Hiruma was tapping the stem against his skin, a thoughtful staccato, the way he might drum his fingers against his desk, "because you want permission to do it again. What, you want to go on a fucking date? You want to fuck him? Is that what's going on here?"

"No!" Sena gasped. He'd never said no to his master, or anyone, so many times in a row before. His vision was starting to blur with tears, and he clenched his eyes shut against them. "I should never have done it, I'll do better. Please punish me, I'll do better."

The foot beneath him tensed, and Sena thought he might be kicked, or shoved off, but Hiruma just shifted in his seat. "That's really it, isn't it. You're telling me because you think I should know, no other reason."

Sena sniffled miserably. When Hiruma exhaled, long and sharp, the breath ruffled the hair on the back of Sena's head. Hiruma was leaning forward, right over him. If he straightened, he'd risk hitting his master in the face. Sena held himself very still. 

"All right, enough," Hiruma said. "Get those fucking flowers on your way up." 

His voice seemed to have softened, if Sena wasn't imagining things. That couldn't be it, could it? It wouldn't be the first time he'd expected pain from Hiruma, and received mercy instead. But hadn't he proven that he needed the punishment? That, given the slightest bit of freedom, he'd only misbehave more? He wanted to beg for the correction that he deserved, but it hadn't worked last time. Instead, something cool fell past him, brushing his ear—the bitten flower, dropped to join its fellows on the ground. 

"Trash them all," Hiruma said, and nudged Sena up by the chin.

Swiping a hand over his eyes, Sena groped around for the flowers with the other. He gathered them, threw them out, and fetched a fresh cup of coffee for his master. When he'd finished, he went to kneel down again, but Hiruma stopped him.

"Answer is no, by the way." 

"Master?"

"More accurately, _hell_ no. I said you could train together, not—" he waved his hand, "whatever the fuck happened today."

Sena flinched, prepared to grovel again. "Sorry—"

"You want to have a fucking love life, you won't do it as my slave, got it?"

What did that mean? Inappropriate as it was to stare, Sena couldn't help but gape at his master, horrified. Was he going to be _sold_? 

"I-I, no, I don't want that, I want to serve you. I want to help you win the tournament. That's _all_ I want."

Picking leaves out of his teeth, Hiruma's lip curled around the motion of his fingernail. "You do that, you'll be up on stage before you know it. Everyone on the winning team gets to ask for something—but you knew that, thanks to the fucking eyebrows."

Sena nodded cautiously, though it had been Riku who'd come to him, brimming with excitement about his unlikely plan.

"What are you going to ask for? When we win."

Surprised, Sena tried to swallow, but it stuck in his throat. He'd never even considered that he could ask for something. "Whatever you want, master?" he tried.

"Seriously, you fucking shrimp?" Hiruma growled, "That's missing the whole fucking point."

Sena ducked his head, but nothing more came of it than that. Hiruma took a gulp from the cup Sena had gotten him, then belatedly looked surprised that it was fresh. "I don't want to hear you blurting out something stupid," he said, "just because you never fucking prepared. Think about it."

"Yes, master," Sena said quickly. There wasn't much he could ask for, but it had been a direct order. 

He'd think about it. 

***

Typically, Shin didn't have a lot of opportunities to speak with his owner and coach. On the off season, he might be left to his own devices for months at a time. Even during this important tournament, he didn't next get a chance until Miracle wandered into the locker room, barely an hour before their first match was scheduled to begin. 

Sakuraba wasn't with him this time, but Shin couldn't wait; who knew when the next opportunity would arise? 

He retrieved the fanbook from his bag, and the sight of it gave him a strange jolt of sense memory. 

Not standing at the public lockers with Sena, at the end of their brutally awkward training session, neither looking at the other. Not receiving it with ginger, telegraphed motions, so as not to risk unwanted contact between their hands. 

No, earlier—when Sena had felt so small against him, and so leaden. It was shocking that such a slight form could be so unyielding one second, and then practically draw him in the next, like a flipped magnet. There had then followed some of the most confusing seconds of his life. A kiss, so feather-light, so abrupt in its start and end, that Shin might have imagined it. Perhaps that was how Sena did all things—at light speeds—except he had been acting so erratically, stiff and then pliant and then gone. One moment a living, _wanting_ thing in his arms, the next a huddled heap, statue-still but for the emotions each chasing the other across his expression, awe and fear and shame. 

Shin hadn't been able to make any sense of it, and he'd tried. Then, and in the week since, he'd turned the scene over and over in his mind, until it grew muddied with repetition, and he could no longer be sure he had the details right. 

It was baffling, and as with many baffling things, his thoughts turned to Hiruma. Not for the first time, he had the uncharitable thought that the devil captain might have put his runner up to this. As a distraction, it was certainly effective, but the way Sena had reacted, Shin couldn't bring himself to believe it—

A hard pat on his shoulder jerked Shin out of his thoughts. He hadn't liked the direction they were taking, anyway. 

"Mind in the game?" Takami said, a reminder, as he passed by.

Shin became aware that he'd unconsciously put a hand to his lips, and hastily dropped it. "Yes," he said, but Takami was already too far to respond. Shin gathered himself, and the book, and shut his locker. 

Effective. Sena always was.

Miracle was reluctant to give Shin his full attention initially, but when he saw the fanbook, he got a strange, nostalgic look in his eye. With careful fingers, he began paging through it, and even smiled as he came to a particularly old picture: Sakuraba making an early catch, back before time—or maybe Shin—had taken his youthful confidence. 

Then Miracle frowned, and thrust the whole thing back.

"Why would you show me this?" he said, in the same dismissive tone that Shin remembered using on Sena. Still, Sena had persevered. Still, Sena had said his piece, and then—

And then entrusted Shin to do his part. 

Pulling his attention back, Shin made the well-rehearsed argument, but he'd never been particularly eloquent; even less so today. 

"Of course I knew he had fans," Miracle replied, exasperated, cutting off the end. "I just don't want him playing this sport, how hard is that to understand? I'm not sending him out there to receive some career-ending injury."

Silently, Shin shut the book, tucked the loose papers back inside. 

"Look here, Shin." Miracle put on a big, shiny smile. His gold tooth gleamed under the locker room lights. "I considered it, I honestly did. With his, let's say, "impromptu haircut", I thought it could be a chance to rebrand. In his earlier years, he had that boyish athleticism, but now he could pull off rugged. He has the facial structure..." Here he trailed off, seeming to get lost in his theoretical plans.

Idly, Shin opened the book cover, and snapped it shut again with a finger. The sound pulled Miracle back like a charm. "Anyway, I had designs. But then I saw that monster on the Hakushuu team."

"Gaou," said Shin. The tournament bracket had been delivered to the team within hours of being drawn, along with a thick stack of dossiers, annotated in Miracle's slightly frantic hand. Gaou had featured prominently.

"Right then and there I decided. My Sakuraba is _never_ going to step foot on a football field again. Of course I knew he had fans as a football player, I keep track of these things. When we took over Oujou, I didn't just pull him out to be contrary. I pulled him out to keep him safe."

"Safe," Shin gritted. "Why are you so concerned with this?" With him.

"Why, Shin. You've been with him from the beginning, I don't know how you can't see it. Sakuraba has _potential_. He's a star. I won't subject him to the brutal life the rest of you live."

Shin knew the statistics, of course. Head injuries. Broken bodies that never healed right, were never given the chance. Slave athletes outliving their use and put to menial tasks, or discarded. He supposed some would count Sakuraba fortunate to be away from that. Sakuraba wouldn't be one of them.

Gearing up to say something mollifying and accepting, Shin had a flash of Sena's determined eyes, staring up at him from a bed of leaves. He had gone through such lengths to bring this to him. What platitudes Shin had queued up turned instead to an inappropriate snort. "Brutal, like cutting your own scalp open?"

Miracle's lips thinned until they all but disappeared. He was a man used to wheedling and flattering, and saw no need to put on a threatening air with his slaves. It was easy to forget he was still their owner, that he still had absolute power over Shin, until his expression closed in like this. 

"You might have been our star player last year," he said, "but I've yet to see the same results out of you this season. Do you think you've earned the right to talk to me like that?" 

"No, coach," said Shin, wooden. 

A beat, and then the menace left Miracle's expression, and he flapped his hand in a shooing motion. "Well, go on, time to play."

It wasn't, but Shin broke away all the same. He needed to take the time to clear his head before the match, and continuing this one-sided conversation wasn't any way to do it. He was several steps away before he remembered, and turned. "We— I promised to get Sakuraba's autograph. For his fan. Will you let him sign it?" And he held the book out again.

For an instant, he thought he might have pushed too far this time. But then Miracle's eyes fell on Sakuraba's face on the cover, and softened. 

"Why not," he said, accepting the book with care. "Anything for a fan."

***

Mamori and Riku caught them coming into the stadium. He was already in his uniform and pads, even though the Seibu game wasn't until the afternoon. She pulled Sena into another soft hug, and Sena found himself blushing, comparing it to another. 

"Just came to say good luck!" Riku glommed on to the side of the hug, tucking one arm over the both of them. "You're not going to lose before we get a chance to wipe the floor with you again, are you?"

Sena didn't think he'd ever get over how familiar this was. It was too easy to forget who—what—he was, and it took him longer than it should have to fight his way out of the hug, and search out his master for permission. 

Hiruma had been running several feet behind, and was just passing them now, along with the rest of the team. "Bring him back when you're done with him," he said cheerily. "This fucking shrimp isn't allowed out unsupervised. I find him wandering around on his own, I'll punish the hell out of him." 

This seemed especially targeted at Mamori, who responded with the expected, outraged, "Hiruma!" If anything, it made his grin widen as he ran on, undeterred. 

Sena wanted to explain that it wasn't like that, but held his silence. It wasn't his place to interfere, if it suited his master's purpose to fluster his former... whatever Mamori had been to him.

"Remember what we're doing this for," Riku said, as he took Sena's hand, and led him away. From the glance he shared with Mamori, he was talking _about_ Sena, not to him. That meant he shouldn't respond, right? Even if their plan, of wishing Sena and the others free at the Christmas Bowl, had no chance of working? All Hiruma had to do was say no, and the association would never enforce it.

Despite his silence, Mamori had no problem reading his uncertain expression.

"Don't worry about that, Sena." She gave him a smile as they walked, one that made him relax on instinct. "Riku will win, and I'll handle the rest."

"Mamori knows him better than anyone," Riku said. "Apparently. If she says he'll do it, he'll do it."

Sena couldn't imagine a simple ask pushing Hiruma to do anything he didn't want to do, but abruptly he recalled Hiruma's pointed question earlier. What would Sena ask for, if they won? That was a weird thing to say, wasn't it, after Sena had been so terrible? 

He couldn't have been suggesting that Sena should ask for his own freedom? 

He couldn't possibly have been suggesting that he'd _grant it?_

"Sena?" said Mamori. She was holding, of all things, a soft pretzel. Where had she gotten that? 

It took Sena another tick to realize they were standing at a cart outside the stadium, that she had just bought it, that she was trying to hand it to him.

"Are you okay?" Riku.

"Yeah, s-sorry." Suddenly lightheaded, Sena took the pretzel, fingers curling around its warmth, too disoriented to even argue. He forced himself to make some expression, and hoped it looked more like a smile than a wince. "You're so sure about winning. Aren't you nervous to fight Hakushuu? And Gaou?"

In the process of tearing a second pretzel, splitting it between them, Riku and Mamori exchanged another glance. Had they always been so close? 

"Kid has a plan," Mamori said, materializing napkins out of her purse.

"It's not a very good one, but," Riku shrugged, taking a big bite. "He's the captain."

"You don't think it's going to work?" Sena said.

"I didn't say that. It's just not very..."

"Sane," finished Mamori tartly, and handed him a napkin. "I hope Hiruma isn't rubbing off on him."

***

When the time finally came for Shin to test himself against Sena, it was a little anticlimactic. 

He should have expected it, he supposed. He'd been training with Sena so long, he intimately knew Sena's limitations. No matter how he'd run the simulations in his head, a speed contest between the two of them would always end the same way—and so it did, in reality. 

As he caught Sena in a tackle, pressed him to the ground, his grim satisfaction was tinged with an unreasonable... disappointment. 

Sena had shown his full speed. 

Through diligent training, Shin had exceeded it. 

What more had he expected?

Sena's body shifted under his, and Shin realized he should get up. Beneath him, Sena had curled up possessively around the ball, and was glaring up at him in challenge. If the conclusion to this rematch was obvious in Shin's mind, Sena had missed it completely. 

Deimon had other plays, and their scores never drifted far apart. But, with Sena completely blocked, Oujou steadily pulled ahead. Shin would do his part, hold Sena back from scoring, allowing his team to win. It was what he had predicted, based on all available data, but somehow, it still wasn't what he'd expected.

As they drew towards the end of the match, Shin found himself on alert. 

Takami agreed. "This is where Hiruma always pulls out his nastiest tricks," he said grimly. "Be on your guard."

Briefly, Shin wondered if he should have recruited Takami to help him make his case to Miracle. Takami had a way with words, and he had more to gain than anyone, almost anyone, from getting Sakuraba back on the field. Then Shin shook himself out of it, and jammed his helmet back on his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts.

It was one of Deimon's last offensives, if not their very last. Sena took off, and Shin allowed himself to admire that speed, without letting it distract him. It was the same play Sena had been trying all game. It had always ended the same way, with Sena on the ground, Shin standing over him. Was Hiruma really so out of options?

As Shin closed in, he reached out, intent on tackling the other player, probably for the last time that day. Instead, his hand passed right through Sena—impossible!—or at least, right through where he should have been. 

It was the matter of a single step, really. His body had the measure of Sena by now, had memorized his movements, his abilities. His arm knew exactly where Sena would be, but when he reached, Sena was just a single step ahead. Somewhere in the course of the game, in making that same repeated run, Sena had managed to pick up speed.

Shin's fingertips brushed the sleeve of Sena's jersey, but didn't find purchase. What should have been a solid grasp closed on empty air, as the smaller player zipped out from under his arms. 

Stunned, Shin couldn't quite process it. It was like walking through your own home at night, rooms you've traveled time and time again, only to stub your toe on a wall that hadn't been there before. Briefly, he was convinced he only had to reach out again, to take hold. The first grasp had been a fluke; the second would surely catch him. 

But before he could even begin the motion, Sena's form was already shrinking into the distance. Drawn automatically to chase after him, Shin knew even as he ran that he wouldn't catch up.

After the match, Shin found Sena glowing, eyes radiant with triumph and pure joy, the sheen of sweat all over him lit by the late morning sun. When he caught sight of Shin, he beamed, looked a little abashed—either by the day's events, or last week's—and then settled on a tentative smile. 

Trying to sound unmoved at the sight, Shin said, "Were you holding back during training?" 

His earlier suspicions returned with a vengeance. Hiruma willingly letting his runner train with Shin—but instructed to purposely slow his step, to lull Shin into misjudging his speed. Somehow this angered Shin more than the idea that the kiss had been disingenuous. He had put everything into training against that speed, into improving his own time against it. For it to have been false—

"I didn't," Sena insisted, "You know I didn't," and Shin calmed himself. 

After all this time, of course he would have known.

"You improve so quickly," Shin said. "It's a challenge to keep up." 

"I was just motivated." Sena ducked his head, rubbed shyly at the back of his neck. "I had something to run for." 

***

The plan went like this. Gaou was always going to push through the line, no matter how hard they tried. Let him. Kid would stand his ground. If they were running, he'd hand off the ball. If they were passing, he'd wait for a clear shot. If he didn't see one, he'd throw it away. 

All of this, he'd decide with the full force of Gaou barreling down on him, in the seconds he had before his body was crushed under the one-man avalanche. 

And then he'd hope and trust that Gaou had the reaction time, the control—and the willingness—to stop. 

Watching Kid standing on that field, staring straight past Gaou with calm, clear eyes, Riku was put in mind of a real cowboy, from one of those old westerns, coming out at high noon to stare death in the face. Here, it wouldn't be literal, hopefully. Gaou had broken a lot of bones, but never _killed_ someone. If there was really any danger, Mamori would have put a stop to it. Wouldn't she?

On their first offense, Kid passed in the last possible instant, staring Gaou stone cold in the face as the giant somehow brought his momentum to an earth-shaking halt, leaving not a scratch on him. Something eased within Riku's chest, as he thought: this could work. Gaou wasn't a mindless, bloodthirsty brute. He would stop if the play was over.

A couple more tries at this, and Riku cursed himself for being so naive. It wasn't that Gaou didn't _want_ to break them—he was just enjoying the buildup more.

The last play had taken down Iseri on the line. Gaou hadn't even been trying to injure him, he never was. Just a graze of his swinging arms as he charged by was enough to send Iseri hobbling off the field, and Kid calling for a timeout. 

"Sorry, Captain," Iseri moaned, as his fellow linemen dragged him to the bench, stretching his leg out. Mamori was waiting with a cold compress and a bottle of water. "I got careless."

"Never you mind," Kid said, drinking from his own bottle. "You held him off long enough. Good work."

"Are you really going to keep going like this?" Riku said, quietly. 

"Plan seems to be holding up so far."

"Only because Gaou sees it as a challenge. You see it too, right? Like he's charging a bullfighter. He's testing his speed against you. And he's getting faster."

Kid sighed. "No plan is perfect, that's what I always say. All we can do is our best. If we're going..." the words seem to catch in his throat, and he had to clear it. At least he was making an effort. "If we're going _there_ , it's only going to be through Gaou. So let's go through Gaou."

They assembled. Across the field, Marco said loudly, "Are you almost there yet?"

"Yeah," Gaou growled, clicking his massive metal mouth guard in place. The rest was muffled, but unmistakable, "This time for sure."

"Good. Make sure to get his throwing arm."

"Kid..." Riku hissed.

"It's all we can do," Kid repeated. 

Hazama, Iseri's replacement, took his place nervously on the line. Gaou clicked his teeth at him, and he flinched. 

"Kid," Riku said again. 

"No need to fret." Kid straightened his shoulders, and again looked death in the eye. "This is our year, don't you know?"

***

There was no way he could have heard it, but in his memories, Sena's brain edited in a sickening crunch as Kid went down. He watched through the camera as Kid disappeared under Gaou's mass, and when he tore his gaze away from the tiny screen, the world seemed magnified. All around him, there was a brief, eerie silence in the stands, before the noise erupted again, twice as loud as before. 

Kurita had his face in his hands, even though by this point, the damage was done, and they were just carrying Kid off the field. This must have been an illustration of his exact fears—except with Hiruma in Kid's place. Sena reached out to reassure him, but found that Musashi and Hiruma were already there—Musashi with one steady hand on Kurita's shoulder, Hiruma elbowed into Kurita's side, aggressively leaning against him, demanding but present. 

Below, Mamori seemed caught between going with Kid or helping to organize the team. Riku gave her a little push, and she nodded, and followed the stretcher off the field.

"Master," said Sena shakily, and Hiruma gave him an annoyed look. 

"Not you too."

"Um." They watched the stretcher get carried off. "I just thought, aren't you... going to need to..."

"Just spit it out already!"

"Won't you have to be there?" Sena squeaked. "To m-make medical decisions for him?"

Hiruma frowned. 

"B-because—"

"Yeah, I got it!" Hiruma snapped. He tapped his foot restlessly another few beats, then jumped to his feet. "Don't miss anything," he said to Sena, nodding at the camera. "And you, fucking fatty—"

Kurita looked up. There were tears in his eyes. 

"That would have gone differently if they had you on their team, I fucking guarantee it."

Kurita's lower lip trembled, but Hiruma was gone before anything could come out, words or sobs or otherwise. 

Musashi sighed, and patted him on the shoulder again. "When he acts like that, you can't help but want to see him get a little injured after all, don't you?" he said, which had Kurita sniffling again. "Okay, okay, I take it back."

Sena returned his attention to the field, where Riku was attempting to herd the rest of the players. Slaves all, they seemed directionless without their master. All except Tetsuma, oddly, who never acted without a direct order, but was now already back in position, or what would have been his position, if the rest of his team had been lined up with him. Steady as a rock, he waited there until Riku managed to gather the others, all but pushing the last few into place. 

The whistle blew, Sena fixed his camera, and the players surged into motion, but it was scattered, uncoordinated. The makeshift quarterback didn't even bother attempting to throw, just passed the ball off to Riku and backed up, throwing his empty hands in the air, like he was being arrested. 

Gaou turned with incredible speed to cut Riku off. 

Riku tried to dart around, but there was no space. 

For a sickening moment, it looked like Gaou would crush him too, send him off on a second stretcher to follow his captain, but he limited himself to just a swipe of his hand, which nonetheless sent Riku sprawling. 

The message was clear. There was no point in breaking anyone else. 

Seibu was already done for.


	50. A door will open

After their disappointing match in the morning, Miracle left to get a couple hours in at the office. Honestly, his heart wasn't in it. Most of his job these days involved reading reports, or nervous underlings summarizing their reports for him, or skimming reports and then delegating them elsewhere. It was rare that he got to do hands-on work anymore, with actual talent—which, when he reflected on it, might be why he clung on so, to the one personal pet project he kept carved out for himself. 

When the not-unexpected outcome of the Seibu-Hakushuu game chimed into his inbox, in the form of yet another report, he decided to call it a day. Time to go pay said pet project a visit. 

Ever since the whole haircutting incident, Sakuraba had been a little mopey. Miracle had tried moving him into a newer, fancier apartment—spacious, with modern furnishings, granite counter tops, a splendid view—but it hadn't helped. He'd read somewhere how repotting a plant into too large a pot could go poorly, and that was pretty much what Sakuraba reminded him of these days, rattling around loosely in his living quarters, not really taking to them, wilting.

As expected, he found Sakuraba hiding in the bedroom, at his desk. He would have just finished up with a client, and looked it—suit disheveled, tie unknotted and hung in two loose ends over his shoulders, though he still wore his felt hat, like he'd forgotten it was there. Under the light from the bay window, he was taking notes about the evening, which at least was commendable—he wasn't naturally that diligent, but had learned to apply himself, after some correction. 

Also on his desk was a plate, bearing a nibbled-on sandwich, and a decimated scattering of chips. Miracle didn't approve of the chips, nor the way Sakuraba ate them—slouched over his desk, cheek unflatteringly smooshed on his palm, getting greasy fingerprints all over his journal—but from his observations, Sakuraba didn't behave like this with clients. If having a release valve at home was what it took, Miracle supposed he could hold his tongue.

After watching for a few minutes, Miracle rapped on the door frame. Sakuraba took his time responding, reaction time dulled by tiredness, or a familiar sort of contempt. He wiped his fingers, shut his journal, and turned, all with an insouciant slowness, and none of the deference he owed his master. Miracle knew he was too soft on the boy, everyone said that, but when it was just the two of them, he often let things like this slide. Correcting him hardly seemed worth the effort, not when he was finally performing so well these days. 

"I have the results," he said, instead, "from today's matches." 

He knew he shouldn't encourage Sakuraba's interest in that awful game, but it was worth it to see him perk up at last. He'd been denied the use of his phone, like a child—sometimes that worked—and had probably been dying to know, but all he said was, "Are we playing Hakushuu next round?" 

The unconscious pronoun made Miracle a little peevish. "No," he said flatly. When he set down the book he was carrying, it was with a little more force than necessary. 

"Really?" Sakuraba didn't even glance at it. "You mean Gaou was defeated?"

"Far from it. Gaou snapped Seibu's quarterback in half, and the rest of them fell apart. No, _we_ were knocked out by Deimon. We're done for the season." 

Sakuraba blanched. "I'm almost glad. That would have been Takami next. Don't... you're not angry, are you? We've—They've come so far, since last year."

"No, no, I agree." Miracle shrugged. "Takami isn't the best player, but he has a rapport with the others. It would have been a nightmare to replace him."

Sakuraba's face went blank. Not for the first time, Miracle wished he could get a report on what thoughts were running through that head of his. 

"With Gaou's track record, I might still have forfeited, even had we won today." Would that make the stubborn boy feel any better? He couldn't help but add, "as much as it would gall to play right into that Maruko scion's hands."

"Would you have?" said Sakuraba, tone as unreadable as his face. 

"It's not just me. Bando folded early too, I'm sure they got wind of what Hakushuu was bringing to nationals. No point risking your investments against that. It's more of a surprise that Seibu went through with it."

"That's because Kid actually cares about the game," Sakuraba muttered, and didn't even have the grace to keep it inaudible. 

"You're not still wishing I'd let you play?"

Sakuraba hunched into himself, which was answer enough. "I don't know if I could have made a difference, if I'd been there today," he said carefully. "But at least I would know."

"This has been the bloodiest tournament in history," Miracle snapped, "and you still complain about not getting to participate? Seibu's quarterback is the only one in the hospital, but he wasn't the only player carried off the field today, far from it." 

When he didn't get a response, he yanked off Sakuraba's hat, and flipped it onto the table. Meekly, Sakuraba dipped his head, allowing him to run a hand along his scalp, through that even, shorn hair. It was as soft and inviting as a fresh, grassy lawn—except for the ugly stitches that marred the effect, closer to the back. 

"You' re almost ready to get these out." Miracle noted. The hair was starting to grow back long enough to cover them up, as well. This could all be behind them soon. 

But. 

"I had an interesting conversation with Shin today."

Sakuraba's eyes flicked up, but otherwise he didn't move, didn't respond. 

"Apparently he dug up one of your old fans, back from your football days."

He nudged the book a little closer to Sakuraba, who finally deigned to look at it, and then looked stunned. "Someone was still holding on to this old thing?" He could be surprisingly naive about his own popularity. 

"Sign it, I'll have it shipped back with some photos. From that shoot last month, at the beach."

Sakuraba dug in his drawer for his autograph pen. "Did you get his name?"

Miracle opened the book to show a name and address, inscribed in childish print on the inside of the front cover. The address was crossed out, with a new one written underneath. The new address was located in a much less affluent part of town, but he doubted that Sakuraba would have that kind of awareness.

Hovering over the page, pen uncapped, Sakuraba paused. 

"I know I don't have any say in it..." he started.

Miracle sighed. He suddenly realized that he'd been preparing for this all along. It was almost a relief to finally get to this point. Holding up his hand, he began to tick off on his fingers. "No tournaments. No matches against other teams. No overnight training."

"What?"

"And the first time you get so much as a cut on you, you're out. For good, you understand?"

"Are you saying..."

"It would just be an image thing. You could go to practice. Put on an appearance at events. Put on some muscle—the aesthetic kind, I mean, not the functional kind, like the rest of them have. That could be very appealing to some. I'll have your nutritionist update your diet, and your physical trainer give you a new routine. We'll also need to take excellent care of your face, that's your most important asset, maybe an eyeshield—"

Engrossed in making his mental to-do list, Miracle was caught off guard when Sakuraba practically launched out of his chair and hugged him. Hugged him! That was far from appropriate. 

Horrified, Miracle hovered his arms in the air, like he might scrape the slave off of him, and into his proper position on the floor. But for some reason, they only drifted down to settle lightly, uncertainly, on the body curled into his. Even after all this time, those arms were strong, his grip firm. Maybe he'd take back to this athlete business more quickly than expected. As long as he stayed within the laid-out boundaries—

"You won't regret this," Sakuraba said into his shoulder. "I won't disappoint you."

"No," said Miracle slowly. "No, I don't suppose you will."

***

The trip to the hospital passed in a blur of noise and motion. Kid wasn't sure he'd stayed conscious for all of it. Every time he opened his eyes, there seemed different people standing over him, and a different ceiling hovering behind them. 

When he came to himself, he was sitting up in a hospital bed, and his right arm felt like it was being carefully and excruciatingly cut apart. It was in a sling, but he must have jostled it or something, because he couldn't imagine having been unconscious so long through that jaw-clenching agony. 

And, as he stared down at it, he knew that the pain wasn't nearly the worst part. 

For a quarterback, and a sharpshooter, his arm was his life. 

No, what was he talking about, his sharpshooting days were long over. But as he gritted his teeth against another sickening swell of pain, he had to wonder if his football days were behind him too. 

It had been foolish to put it all on the line for the Christmas Bowl, when they could have easily waited for next year. Nothing good ever came of setting his expectations too high, wasn't he always saying that? When had he changed his tune?

Once the pain had fuzzed out a little around the edges, and he was able to mostly unclench his body, he took some time to check his surroundings. It wasn't as if he'd never been in a hospital bed before, but everything looked a little different today. Off, somehow, in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

It wasn't until his wandering gaze fell on the rails of his bed, and the cuffs hooked around them—presently coiled about themselves, inert, but full of promise—that it finally clicked. 

He was in the slave ward of the hospital.

Automatically, he reached for one of the cuffs, which was not a smart move. From within the sling, his arm vehemently told him so, and his entire body curled around it, like he might somehow shield it from the throbbing pain. 

Time passed.

When he managed to straighten, he tried again, this time concentrating on using his left arm instead, which thankfully felt whole, if bruised. 

If he'd thought it might have been an illusion, that idea vanished as he lifted the shackle and let it drop, listening to it rattle back into stillness as it rocked on the rail. Real enough. 

He'd been here before, of course, but always on the other side of the bed. As far as he could remember, neither he nor his father had ever had cause to use these restraints on one of their sick or injured slaves. With any luck, that would hold.

"Checking out the amenities?" The curtain drew aside, and Hiruma burst in. This was improbable enough, but he was also bearing flowers, which made Kid wonder if he had some other injuries he hadn't accounted for. Head ones, perhaps.

Then he realized the flower arrangement looked strangely familiar.

"You get those from Marco?" he said, and was surprised to hear how weak and reedy his voice came out. 

Hiruma looked at the flowers, then back up. "Never took you for such a fucking expert."

"We got the same ones. Or did you think he only sent them to you?"

Knocking aside the small monitor on the bedside table, Hiruma slammed the flowers down, dropped his bag, and grabbed Kid's chart. When he flipped through, it was in apparent disinterest, rifling through the pages far too quickly to process what they said. 

"So," he said off-hand as he did so, "when did you change your emergency info?"

With that, it all made sense. He'd updated his medical records to reflect his new status. The system would have sent him to this ward, and someone would have called in his owner. 

Even so, could Hiruma really have gotten here that fast? Or had that disoriented haze lasted longer than he thought? 

"I was just settling my affairs last night," Kid said. "It seemed prudent."

"Always such a fucking pessimist."

Kid chuckled, and then swallowed against another wave of pain, tilting his head back against the pillows. Quite a plush setup for a slave, really. "Was I wrong to be?"

Hiruma dropped the chart back in its slot at the foot of the bed, and came up close to examine Kid's arm, going so far as to pull the sling open, so he could peer inside. "Wiggle your fingers."

Kid would have rolled his eyes, if the pain didn't make him wince. "You really shouldn't move that," he said, but obliged.

"Eh, you're fine," pronounced Hiruma, medical expert. "That was a stupid fucking plan, you know."

"Did we win?"

"Fat chance." Hiruma swiped something on his phone, then put it in Kid's good hand. It was open to an article about the game, and under the byline said it was posted two hours ago, so Kid really had been out for a while. He checked first for mentions of injuries, and was relieved to see the rest of his team was fine. Then he checked the outcome, and grimaced. 

Still engrossed in reading, he almost startled when the curtain rustled open again, but this time managed to keep his arm still. See? He could learn.

A doctor bustled in, holding out a folder and looking harried, as doctors do.

"There you are," she said, spotting Hiruma. "I turned around to get the x-rays, and then you were gone." She opened the folder, and thrust the contents under his nose.

Hiruma gave it a dismissive look-over, before shrugging. "Why am I looking at this, I don't care. Just fix the fucking arm already."

Kid would have liked to see the x-rays, but resigned himself to being talked about like he wasn't there. He swiped up to the top of the article one-handed, and pretended to read it again.

"Yes, well, there's still quite a bit of swelling, so we won't be able to apply a cast today. He'll have to come back for that."

"So we're done here?" said Hiruma.

"You might consider putting him on some painkillers. I won't prescribe any without your go ahead, of course, but he'll be in a tremendous amount of pain."

No shit, thought Kid, a tad uncharitably. He glanced up from the screen again, wondering if he was going to get any, and found Hiruma staring at him. He quickly looked back down.

The doctor tapped the top of the x-ray. "I also noticed he's not chipped. We can put that in while he's here, if you like. A lot of them get done at the markets, but it's more hygienic to do it at a hospital or a state-sanctioned training facility."

"That's your fucking treatment plan? No drugs, and cut him up some more?"

"It's really a very small incision." She pursed her lips, as if surprised by this resistance. "He'll need to be chipped if you want to breed him, as I'm sure you're aware." 

That was about the limit of Kid's ability to pretend he wasn't listening. His body must have agreed, because it gave an involuntary spasm, as if he'd been struck. His right arm predictably didn't like that, and his left dropped Hiruma's phone, then caught it again where it bounced on the mattress. Against another surge of agony, he rested the phone back on his stomach, and tried to look inconspicuous. 

"Now why would I want to do that," Hiruma was saying. He had that huge, opaque grin on his face, the kind that could have masked any manner of thought or calculation behind it. 

The doctor closed up the folders. Spared Kid a glance, as impassive as if he were unconscious on the bed. "I'm going to be honest with you. We're looking at months for your slave to heal. Add on physical therapy, if you choose to go that route, and even in the best case, you're not going to get any more games out of him for the better part of a year. Many owners in your position would be looking at retiring him right about now."

Retiring. Kid didn't know if it was the pain, the disorientation, or something else, but the word made him break out in a cold sweat.

"Hey, fucking eyebrows," Hiruma interrupted. "In my bag. The notebook."

On autopilot, Kid reached out his left hand and tentatively dipped it into the bag, half expecting something in there to bite him. His groping touch fell on a notebook, which he pulled out, and nearly dropped. 

The blackmail book. 

He was shocked that it felt like a normal journal, worn at the spine and corners, when it should have been weighty with the evil that it contained.

"What's wrong, can't throw anymore?" Hiruma taunted. Kid wanted to point out that his throwing arm was, in fact, in a sling, but instead he flipped it the short distance with his off hand, picking an angle and trajectory that would keep the book from opening up before it landed square in Hiruma's palm.

Hiruma paged through rapidly, and settled on on an arbitrary spot. "Ah yes, Dr. Liao... We have lots to talk about. This guy's status. Your private research. Who really needs to know about either one..." He wound an overly-familiar arm around her shoulder. At first she shrugged it off, but stopped as he continued whispering into her ear, a string of fierce sibilants, and eventually even went a little slack. She let him lead her back through the curtain, and then farther down the hall.

In the silence that followed, Kid allowed himself a moment to be shocked. 

For once, he hadn't been pessimistic enough. 

The cuffs on the rails took on an even more sinister air. 

When Hiruma returned, he looked so pleased that Kid half expected to hear he'd eaten the doctor right up, maybe gnawed on her bones. "Your drugs are coming, just hold your fucking horses," he said cheerfully, and tucked the book back into his bag. 

"That's not the part I was worried about," said Kid, though the idea of pain relief was very, very welcome. "It's the... other... Look, do I get a say in it at all?"

It wasn't very coherent, but Hiruma gave him a knowing smirk. "Of course not. You want to stick a chip in your neck, you can wait until after you buy back your fucking freedom."

"No, I meant—" And then his brain caught up with his ears. There was a lot to unpack in that response. He took the time to do so thoroughly, examining every box and case. 

"You know," he said finally, "you can't blame people for believing the worst of you, when you pretty much encourage it."

"Like you wouldn't think it anyway, fucking eyebrows." Hiruma snagged the chair with his ankle and dropped into it, propping his boots up to rest on the edge of Kid's hospital bed, toes digging under the railing. "Now, Gaou. Tell me fucking everything."

"What would you have done, in my position?" They both looked at the sling, and knew the question wasn't hypothetical. Hiruma would be in his position very soon.

"Not your shitty plan, that's for sure."

"I wonder about that. You're out of options. You're frantically looking for new ones. Come next week, maybe my shitty plan doesn't look so shitty."

Hiruma narrowed his eyes. Part of his spiky exterior was a way of preventing people from seeing the real him, even if what they actually saw was worse. He hated it when people got a good read on him. Kid managed a knowing smirk of his own.

"If you insist on going through with it, you might not be able to avoid this." They both looked at the sling again, longer this time. "I didn't want to worry my team. I took care of my affairs, but I didn't leave them with a plan. Perhaps you should."

"Planning to lose? That's your fucking specialty, not mine." 

"Planning to win, even if something bad happens. ...Have you picked yet?" It was hard to imagine anyone taking over for Hiruma, if he was incapacitated, but it was looking more and more likely that he'd have to. Better to do it now, than not be able to later.

Hiruma grinned. "Too bad you had to go and break that fucking arm. I should have kept you out of your match, forced you to backup for ours."

It was such an echo of Kid's original worries that he had to let out a surprised chuckle. Only now, hearing the words come out of Hiruma's own mouth, was it clear how unlike him that would be. "You'll have to pick someone. Leaving it to the sub pool is just asking for it. Sena?"

"Can't fucking throw," said Hiruma immediately. "Can't make a decision to save his life."

Both important skills for a quarterback, Kid thought. He almost opened his mouth to agree, before he looked a little closer, and realized: "So you _have_ decided."

Hiruma tilted his head back over his chair, neck bent at an unnatural angle. The idea of being out of action, of leaving the fate of the game in someone else's hands, was clearly killing him, if the tortured grin he aimed at the ceiling was anything to go by. "I just won't get hit, simple as that."

With that, Kid's knowing smirk came back. "And here I thought you weren't going to use the same shitty plan as me."

***

On Hiruma's way out, he slid aside the curtain, and Mamori was standing there, Tetsuma lingering a step behind. She gave him a cold look, like she had resolved to ignore him.

"I brought you some things from home, Kid, clothes and... some..."

Hiruma stopped her as she tried to push past, and guided her backwards, back out into the hallway. The curtain fell over them, and a moment later, Tetsuma shouldered through instead, to come stand at Kid's bedside. 

He looked down with an intense, inscrutable expression. 

Kid was touched.

"You couldn't get what you wanted," came Hiruma's voice from outside, loud and clear. "Again. You sure know how to pick them."

"You dragged me out here to point that out?"

(Kid and Tetsuma exchanged looks. There had never been much chatter between the two of them, but now he found himself wishing he could think of something to say, to drown out what was clearly building up to a full-blown quarrel.)

"It was never about the slaves, was it?" Hiruma.

"Of course not," Mamori snapped. "Otherwise how could I be working with Kid?"

"Then don't say it's about the slaves."

"I never said it was about the slaves!"

("Don't they know sign language?" said Kid dryly. Tetsuma's eyebrows creased. After some thinking, he jerked his head questioningly over his shoulder.

"No," Kid sighed, "If you went and stopped them now, it would only get more awkward. Don't you think?")

"Hiruma, wait!" Mamori's voice suddenly rose.

"What, fucking manager."

"You... you have to get through Hakushuu in one piece."

"I _have_ to?"

"If you want to beat Shinryuuji, I mean. If I can't have what I wanted, then at least you should."

A snort. "I always do."

("He does always seem to, doesn't he?" said Kid thoughtfully. 

Tetsuma picked up the flowers from Hiruma, previously from Marco, and unceremoniously dropped them in the garbage.)

"And after you've won, Sena..." said Mamori, voice trailing off, or growing too quiet to hear.

"No fucking way, I still need those fucking legs."

"That's why I said after!"

"Are you asking for his sake, or mine?"

"You know it's not right."

"He's been a slave his whole life. He can't decide if he wants toast or fucking oatmeal for breakfast without looking my way. What do you think is going to happen if I cut him loose?"

"It's not right," she insisted, in a voice that was final. Braver men than Kid had quailed at that tone. Hiruma seemed to decide it was his cue to make his retreat, because there was no response from him, only the sound of footsteps stomping away. 

"He might surprise you," she sighed eventually, with the rueful inflection of someone whose intended audience was already too far to hear. Or maybe it was no longer Sena she was talking about, after all.

***

Sena woke in the middle of the night and couldn't get his bearings, not until the high-pitched sawtooth of Monta's snoring managed to ground him. 

For a couple beats he lay there, trying to recapture his earlier sleepiness. 

Then, giving up, he carefully slid out of bed. Monta's snores hiccuped for a moment, then resumed, and Sena let out a breath.

It still didn't feel quite right to go wandering around in the middle of the night. There was the sense that this was where he'd been placed, where his master would expect to find him if he had need, and so here he should stay. 

Oddly, it was his earlier punishment that made him feel better about it all. When Hiruma had wanted him to stay put, he'd been chained down. Now that he was done being cuffed down at night, now that the vague excuse about sickness had been lifted and Monta had moved back in, did that mean Sena was free to do as he pleased?

After a quick stop to the bathroom, he drifted into the kitchen, half expecting to see Hiruma sitting there at his laptop, as usual. 

The kitchen table was empty, but from here he could see a light on in the back yard. Curious, he slipped out into the cold night, and followed the light to the half-built extension, rising off the back of the house. The walls and roof had been put up, and from the outside, especially in the dark, it looked almost complete. But the inside was still hollow, and construction had halted a few weeks back, right around the time that Musashi had started playing with them again. 

Sena ducked into the open doorway to find Musashi here now, scratching with chalk on the back wall: four even crosses that formed the corners of a doorway. 

"Good timing," he said, without looking up. "Grab that tape measure, would you? I want to check these lengths."

Sena held one end, while Musashi pulled the other out to his markings. 

"Looks good," Musashi said, after checking each corner. He began to scrape the chalk between each point, filling in the lines of the doorway, using a yardstick for a straight-edge. "This is going to connect into the rest of the house. When the extension's ready, I'll knock out this whole piece here. Where do you think it'll open up?"

Thoughts still slightly blurry from sleep, Sena puzzled it over. "In the hallway? Next to your room?"

"Yup, you got it." Musashi tucked the chalk into his pocket, dusted his fingers, and began to roll up the blueprints that had been open at his feet. "It's weird, right? We've been working on the extension for so long, but from inside the house, you'd never know the difference. Then one day, a door's going to open up right here," he knocked on the wall with his knuckles, "and then we'll be able to enjoy what we've been building this whole time."

"I guess so?" said Sena, picking up the carrying tube, holding it out for Musashi to slide the papers into.

"I'm just saying, don't worry about it so much. You've already come a long way. I watched you practically force Hiruma to go look after Kid today. You'll do great."

Sena nearly dropped the tube. "That... that's not what I meant." Him, a slave, telling his master what to do? Just one more unthinkable crime to add to his list. By this point, he'd done more things wrong than right. He hadn't seen Hiruma since the Seibu game, was he furious? Biding his time? "I-I never meant to force him, I just—"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Musashi said. "You were right. Guy's arm was snapped like a twig, and they weren't going to give him so much as an aspirin before Hiruma showed up. You made a good call, and you'll do it again next week, I'm sure of it."

"What are you talking about?" All of a sudden, Sena was sure he was dreaming, or would soon wish he were. 

"When you take over as quarterback," said Musashi, as if it was obvious. "Or didn't he tell you?"

"What?" This time, Sena really did drop the tube. He counted himself lucky he didn't drop himself. "When I take over as _what_?"


	51. Standing there clueless

It felt like he had barely gotten back into bed, his cheek had only just touched the pillow, and then it was morning, actually morning this time, and Monta was shaking him awake. 

Before Sena could gather the brain power to protest about a rest day, Monta was already dragging him out of bed, chipper and relentless. Unlike Sena, who was always sore and tired the day after a big match, Monta seemed to draw fuel from the experience, the stadium lights, the cheering crowd. In no time at all, Sena found himself out in the practice yard, setting up for drills in between jaw-cracking yawns. Mindlessly, he put down cones as they were handed to him, which worked—until Monta decided to try throwing them, with predictable results. One veered way off course, right into the half-built extension, and Sena ran in after it. There he paused. 

Still groggy and disoriented, he had almost thought his late-night chat with Musashi might have been a dream. But here was the doorway from last night, outlined in chalk against the back wall. There were even a few pale smudges where Musashi had rapped his knuckles against it. He'd been making some kind of point, about results, or opening doors, or... 

"Did you get it?" came Monta's voice, and Sena shook himself out of his thoughts. The cone must have landed on its edge and rolled a bit; Sena found it leaning against a post, and ducked back out with it. 

He was wide awake now, but if anything, it made him even more distracted. He went through the motions with an eye on the house, watching through the glass door for for signs of activity in the kitchen. More than once, he crashed into Monta, not paying attention, but his loud-mouthed teammate didn't yell. He never yelled at Sena.

It was closer to noon by the time Hiruma made an appearance, and Sena immediately mumbled some kind of excuse to duck indoors. Hiruma had put on some coffee by the time Sena made it to his side, and was rummaging through the cabinets, taking down a variety of pill bottles that rattled as he dropped them onto the counter. Once he had the full set, he threw some pills haphazardly into his mouth, and then started cramming the tops back on.

"Vitamins," he explained, when he noticed Sena there. "Keeps your fucking bones strong. Here, hand." Obediently, Sena held out a hand, and received an unmarked white tablet into it. Sena hadn't seen which bottle it came from, but he placed it on his tongue without hesitation, and painfully dry-swallowed. 

"Master," he said, as Hiruma moved away again, this time back to the coffeemaker. As Hiruma poured himself a mug, Sena felt vaguely like he should be the one doing that for him. "Um, next game, I-I heard that... you... want me to..."

Hiruma took one look at Sena's face, and groaned. "That fucking old man running his mouth again? What about it? You going to refuse?"

Sena shook his head quickly. "I'll do whatever you want," he said earnestly, "but..."

"But?" Hiruma stopped pouring, narrowing eyes abruptly fixed on him, and Sena went cold. He'd never refuse his master anything, of course not, but he was getting dangerously close to looking like he was—nearly as bad. 

How could he explain? 

They'd both watched how painfully Kid had gone down. Sena would happily take the hit for Hiruma, have his own bones broken in his place. The one thing he was terrified of was failing his master, and he couldn't help but feel like he was being set up to do just that. He had to explain he wasn't going to be able to do what Hiruma wanted, expected. Better to tell him now, than to disappoint him later on. 

He started to stammer it out, but Hiruma cut him off with, "It's way too fucking early for this," and disappeared down the hall, yelling for the "fucking old man". A part of Sena noted that the clock read 12:01, officially afternoon now, not exactly early, but that voice sounded suspiciously rebellious, and he shushed it. 

When Hiruma came back, it was alone, having apparently tried to wake Musashi and failed. He saw that Sena hadn't magically disappeared in the meantime, rubbed his eyes theatrically, and waved at the table. "Sit."

Hastily slotting himself into one of the chairs, Sena gripped the edge of his seat, hard enough to grind a new joint into his fingers, and stared down at the tabletop.

He shouldn't have said anything. 

He should have just obeyed, instead of making a fuss. 

Even better, he should have just _been_ better, and able to do what his master required from him.

There came the squeak of Hiruma settling down across from him, the thunk of his mug on the table. "You know you're just the backup, right? In case I end up like that fucking eyebrows, and can't play anymore."

"Yes, master."

"But I can't _afford_ to end up like the fucking eyebrows. I break my arm, it won't heal in a week, and I need it against Shinryuuji." 

"Then..." Sena looked up with hope, but it didn't last, against the expression on Hiruma's face.

"I can't afford to. But if it happens, someone needs to take over. None of our other cards are ready to play yet, so it's going to be you, fucking shrimp. Only you."

For the first time, Sena got the sense of just how many plans and contingencies Hiruma had going on at the same time. It should have been reassuring, but faced with the idea that he might have to _be_ Hiruma, it was only a further sign of how miserably inadequate he would be. 

If it was only a matter of a warm body to fill a spot, Sena could do that. But Hiruma would expect his replacement to win, just like he would. To get through this match, to make it to finals. All without him, and his plans, and his contingencies. 

"You're fast," Hiruma was saying. "You'll stay out of Gaou's way. I'm not saying you won't get hurt. But you stand a better chance than anyone of staying in one piece, and still getting us somewhere."

Sena nodded tightly. Hiruma wasn't offering him a choice, but he was explaining himself, which was more than another master would have done. It was more than a slave was owed. 

"Listen, I will claw my way back from hell to fight them. I just need you to hold it together until I do. What's the problem here?" 

Sena wanted to say there was no problem, take back that he'd said anything. He deeply regretted ever bringing it up. But Hiruma was asking, and that meant he had to answer. "I don't know if I can... do what you do. I-I follow orders, I don't make them. I won't know what to do, what to tell everyone, and... and..."

And even if he did know, the team would never listen to him. Why should they? Hiruma saw everything, always had a plan or ten up his sleeve. Sena just ran where he was told, and counted himself lucky if he managed that. 

"I know," Hiruma sighed out an exhale, and with it, some of the bite in his voice. "Whatever that fucking manager says, I know." He found a scrap of paper from his pocket, and scribbled on it, just a few short, sharp lines. 

"If you're ever standing up there clueless, and you need orders," he folded it, slid it over to Sena's side of the table, under one pointed fingernail, "then these are your fucking orders."

Sena took the wrinkled note gingerly, unsure whether to treat it like a holy text, or a weapon that would cut him. "Can I... read it now?"

"Do what you want," Hiruma said, getting up. Apparently their chat was done, he'd offered all the advice and guidance he intended to.

Breath held, Sena unfolded the scrap, smoothed it out on the table, and then stared at it. 

Orders? All Hiruma had written was one short word.

RUN.

***

Gaou looked even bigger the second time Sena saw him up close, sticking up from the line of his team like a tree rising from the underbrush. There was an excited, almost child-like glee on his face, that only brightened when Kurita took his position opposite. 

"Finally!" Gaou roared, "A challenge!" He broke from his team to stomp over to Kurita, and delivered a bone-crushing shoulder-slap, with a force that would have left Sena nothing more than an imprint in the dirt. Kurita only looked up with a nervous sort of determination, and politely nudged Gaou's arm away.  
  
"Oh, this is scary," said Marco, gazing up at the pair. "I'm glad I can stay on the back line, and leave this to you."

"Please return to your team," the referee called, from a healthy distance. "Let's have a fair match."

The formalities ended, but Gaou's interest in Kurita didn't; he seemed more interested in dueling than in playing football. Every play found the two of them surging against each other, two mountain ranges rising where the tectonic plates of their respective lines clashed. Sena managed to sneak by them a few times, and every too-long second he spent in their straining shadows felt like an avalanche waiting to fall on him. 

Even when he wasn't running, Sena spent every play holding his breath, waiting for Gaou to break through—and he did, every time. But Kurita managed to hold him off long enough for Hiruma to get rid of the ball, one way or another, and just like in the Seibu game, Gaou stopped his attack immediately when the play ended. 

The only problem was that it hadn't worked for Kid—and Hiruma wasn't as fast as Kid. 

When it finally happened, Sena wasn't there to see it. He was on the other side of the field, running, empty-handed. He didn't even have the ball. 

He had no way to know if Gaou had plowed through Kurita too early, or if someone else had distracted Kurita, allowing Gaou to slip past. All he knew was that the whistle blew, and Sena turned, and everyone was crowded around one end of the field. Everyone except—

The distance vanished in an instant. 

Without any sense of moving, he was abruptly there, having pushed himself through the crowd of bodies—football must have made him violent, he couldn't remember ever shoving anyone before all this—to find his master lying flat on his back, limbs splayed at strange angles. There was no color at all on his face, and his eyes were staring, dazed, up into the sky. 

Sena knew that expression, that stiff returning to his body, slowly regaining sensation and trying to take stock of the damage. It wouldn't come all at once, there would be shock at first, and then the pain would hit, and then there would be more, and still more, every wave of it all-consuming, too much to pick apart. Not for the first time, Sena thought football was an insane sport, that it could make free men go through the kind of treatment that should have been reserved for slaves. 

Paramedics arrived with a stretcher, and it was the same operation he had watched with Kid, the careful lifting and sliding, the settling, Hiruma's head rolling limply to one side. 

As the stretcher left, Sena felt pulled after it, like he should go with his master, to be there, to serve. But before he could move to follow, Musashi's hand fell on his shoulder—not heavy enough to hold him, not even the full weight of it, just the faintest touch of a reminder. 

It was enough. 

Sena had his orders.

"What's the play?" Musashi said, as Sena took panicked stock of the team. Now that the stretcher had gone, they were all watching him, expectant. 

He couldn't do this. He couldn't tell them what to do. 

But Hiruma could. He had Hiruma's orders in his pocket, and it was almost as good as if his master was standing here now, as if the order was coming directly from his mouth. 

Run. 

He just had to convey it to the rest of the team, which was easier said than done. They'd never listen to him, they'd laugh at him. Hiruma would come back to find the team in chaos, the scoreboard a massacre—

"Sena?" Monta said. "What should we do, man?"

"Let him think," Juumonji snapped, which completely overestimated the amount of calculation Sena's brain was capable of. 

Musashi's hand was still on his shoulder. The rest of them were looking at him, shaken but determined. That's right, they were all in this together. They all wanted the same thing: not to lose to a team like Hakushuu, who won by breaking their opponents.

"L-let's do the same formation," Sena said. "I'll, um, I'll take the snap, and run with the ball. Kurita, just give me a little time, if you can? Um... Kurita?"

But while the rest of the team had gathered in close, to hear Sena's quiet voice, Kurita hadn't moved from his spot. He was just standing there, statue-still, staring off toward where Hiruma had disappeared, devastation carved into his face. 

Some of Sena's earlier panic started to return. If Kurita wasn't there to hold off Gaou, no one else would stand a chance. Was he going to follow Hiruma's stretcher after all, in one of his own? On his very first play? 

Musashi started to draw Kurita aside, get him to sit down. Not for the first time, Sena wondered why Hiruma hadn't picked Musashi for his replacement. He was steady, responsible, already taking care of the team. Kurita drifted along with the pull, like a balloon on a string, but after a few steps, floated to a stop. Looked down, confused, to find Komusubi standing in his path. 

Komusubi, whose short, quiet form was easy to overlook. 

Komusubi, who had never so much as met Sena's eyes, much less said a word to him, now braced both arms against Kurita's chest, as if to stop him from leaving. Komusubi, who fixed Sena with a face set with determination. 

"I—" he said. His voice was surprisingly low, rough as if he'd found it rusting away in an abandoned shed for years. None of them had ever heard it before, "—hold."

He turned back to Kurita, and gave a push with his whole body. 

"I—hold," he said again, into Kurita's stunned face. "My—turn." 

And Kurita gently folded down into the grass.

***

Master Kurita's opponent. Gaou. Komusubi knew him. Recognized him.

Strong. Almost as strong as Master Kurita. 

An animal. All fighting, all strength. Win or lose. Nothing more.

Komusubi knew him. Komusubi had been him.

He remembered that life, before Master Kurita. An animal life. No talking. No thinking. Only fighting. Fists. Knees. Teeth. Blood. 

Master Kurita had taken him from that. Given him strength. Confidence. 

No, not given: lent. 

Now Master Kurita was hurt. Needed it back. 

Needed strength. Needed confidence. 

Komusubi would return it. Lend it.

Just for now. 

Just until Master Kurita was ready to fight again. 

***

"Feeling guilty?" Marco's voice was smooth as ever, smooth as the rum he liked to mix with his cola, smooth as the languid motions of him slipping into the seat next to hers, smelling of grass and sweat. It was the same kind of voice that she'd once described as smarmy, slick, back before she'd really known him. At times like these, she wouldn't have minded returning to those early days, not a bit. 

"You said they would all forfeit." Maria plucked at an imaginary thread on her sleeve, to avoid looking at him. She could imagine the look on his face anyway, that ruthless, reptile calculation he wouldn't have bothered to turn off, not with only a few minutes before he had to get back out there. "You said, once we picked up a reputation, tactics like this would no longer be necessary."

"I said we'd give them a good scare," he replied. Smooth, so smooth. "They're allowed to make their own decisions, we can't begrudge them that."

Maria didn't respond. She was thinking of a different Marco, tightly fixing the image in her mind, as if it might disappear if she let go of it. That romantic, doe-eyed idealist she'd known so briefly, before the game—or Maria herself?—had twisted him into something different altogether. Or had he never existed at all?

"The replacement?" she said, though she didn't want to know. She might have stopped attending these games altogether by now, if Marco hadn't kept insisting, without evidence, that he played them all for her. 

The drawing silence forced Maria to look up, where Marco's words hadn't. 

"Who?" she said.

"Remember that time you had to bail me out of jail?"

"Which time."

"And we saw that runaway slave..."

A huddled figure came to mind, appearing not much more than a boy in the dark corner of his cell, arms bound, eyes blown wide with fear. 

Mentally, she placed that boy next to Gaou, measured their respective sizes, and knew. This wasn't the matter of a broken bone or two. They could have a _death_ on their hands.

"I know you, Marco. After all this time, you still have a soft center. If you do this, how will you live with yourself?" 

"As long as you can still live with me," he laughed, without any humor, "that will be enough." 

The unspoken question— _Can you?_ —she left unanswered. Without a word, she stood, and went outside. 

"We probably won't need to do anything," he called after her. "He should know as well as we do he won't take a hit from Gaou. He'll give up." 

It was the same brand of morbid, unfounded optimism that had led them all the way here in the first place.

She found the Deimon team loosely huddled around their makeshift quarterback. #21 was facing away from her—what had his name been, Sena?—apparently telling something to his team, though from the turn of his face, he seemed more to be addressing the grass under his cleats. 

The linemen standing opposite him spotted her approaching first, and a few of them detached from the group to circle around toward her, like bouncers. "What do you want?" one of them said. 

She lifted a palm, to show she didn't plan to get any closer. "It's not too late to forfeit," she said calmly, and then, when the same one spat on the ground between them, added, "I'm talking to Sena."

That should have been obvious, but Sena startled, as if surprised to even be noticed. In the clean light of day, he looked taller than he had hunched in that cell at least, standing upright, in full gear, his team gathered around him. 

Gaou would destroy him in a breath.

"You and I both know you're not playing of your own will," she said. They had only met because he'd been caught running away, and she could see him flush at the memory. Whatever reason he had for running before, the prospect of facing Gaou had to be an even more powerful motivator... and this time, running was as easy as saying the words.

But Sena only shook his head tightly, lips tucked into a pale line. 

"I'm not trying to get an advantage—I'm warning you. Your master is out of commission, and Gaou is waiting." She gestured behind her. "Chances are, you won't survive this. Is there really a punishment waiting for you that could be worse than that?"

For a moment, Sena's gaze flickered—he clearly thought the answer was yes, and Maria reassessed her opinion of Hiruma. Then it settled on her, clear and resolute. "I'm not doing this because I don't want to be punished by my master," he said. "I'm doing this because I want to win for him."

There was a light in those eyes that reminded her of Marco, the soft one, back when they'd started this whole endeavor. He had given up so much, used methods she had never approved of, all for a cheap shot at victory. It wasn't until this very moment, looking at Sena, that she finally realized why. 

"I won't forfeit," Sena went on. "My master might not be watching right now, but I swear I won't let him down. I'll win for him, no matter what."

"I understand," she said, and she really did.

No matter how the years and the desperate clawing for victory had changed Marco, one thing remained the same. _I'll win for him, no matter what._ She was certain he would have said these same words, even now, about her.

***

Sena didn't know how they clung on as long as they did. It must have been the rest of the team, because from the start, he was every bit as out of his depth as he'd known he'd be. 

Komusubi volunteering had amazed them all, but when they lined up across from the enemy team, just the height difference alone made it obvious: Komusubi would be no match for a monster like Gaou. Sena kept waiting for someone to point this out, to change the plan, before he realized that it was his job now, that he was the one who had to come up with something. 

He had nearly lost himself then, in a spiral of panic and self-doubt, until Juumonji had taken him aside, with surprising patience, and not a hint of resentment about what had occurred between them. 

At Juumonji's suggestion, it was him and Komusubi against Gaou together, an unusual combination that failed the first time—Sena had never thrown away a football so quickly in his life. After a few tries, they managed to hold, and Sena darted past them—terrified, but past. 

The enemy started consolidating their defenses in the center, which let Sena make another run on the left; against all odds, it was starting to work. With a new daring, he even began to try a few of his flimsy passes, the ones he'd been practicing for all of a week. Thank goodness Monta could catch just about anything, and Taki had a confidence that let him plant himself anywhere, and hold his arms up for the ball. 

Somehow, one way or another, they staggered to halftime without falling too far behind. But, Sena reflected, if they wanted to get to finals, they'd have to do better than that.

"He's asking for you," said Musashi from behind him, and Sena jumped. 

Musashi had come out of a door that Sena could have sworn was a closet. Through gritted teeth, like he couldn't believe he was saying it, he added, "he's awake," and stabbed an aggrieved finger towards the door. 

Sena followed the gesture and found, not a closet after all, but barely a step up, some sort of storage room stacked with boxes and field equipment, ceiling sloping and irregular—it must have been under the tiered seating of the stands. Sena had thought Hiruma would be at the hospital by now, but for some reason he was laid out instead against the far wall. He'd gotten some of the color back in his face, but he was still horizontal, and made no move to change that, even as Sena crept his way in. 

"Took you long enough," he said, to the ceiling. "Get those bandages, bring them here. Fucking old man doesn't have the guts."

There was a roll of bandages lying out on one of the stacks of boxes, already partially unraveled, and then abandoned there. There was also an unlabeled medicine bottle next to it, which Sena left alone. Under Hiruma's direction, Sena wound the bandages reverently around his master's right arm, from above the elbow, down to the wrist. Hiruma didn't so much as flinch, but he also didn't move in any way to help. 

"There's no way to fix this in a week," he muttered, seeming more angry about the Shinryuuji game than this one. "That fucking eyelashes, I'll fucking kill him." 

"Are... are they broken, master?" Kid had gone to the hospital for his arm. Shouldn't Hiruma do the same?

"Don't ask stupid fucking questions," Hiruma snapped. "Tighter."

Sena did the left arm too, while a growing suspicion made his stomach sink. Hiruma wasn't at the hospital, where he should have been. Musashi had refused to bandage his arms. It couldn't be that Hiruma planned to go back out onto the field, even like this?

"Master..." he said quietly, when he had finished, and Hiruma abruptly folded upright, like a jackknife, without using his arms at all. 

"I said I'd fight my way back from hell, didn't I?" Hiruma grinned. "My helmet. And those fucking painkillers."

Dutifully, Sena slid the helmet over Hiruma's head, settled it in place, and bit back what he was going to say. He opened the bottle, struggling momentarily with the unfamiliar cap, and fed Hiruma four white tablets, tipping them into Hiruma's mouth from his palm. There was something deeply wrong with this scenario, hand-feeding his master like baby, albeit one with fangs, while Hiruma's arms dangled at his sides, no more than decoration. 

"Must be nice," Musashi muttered darkly when they emerged, "having someone who will mindlessly follow your stupidest orders."

Sena shrank from the accusing gaze, but despite the words, Musashi's anger didn't seem to be directed at him. Hiruma staggered away from them, less with every step, until he was standing up straight on the field, beaming widely, grin manic and slightly glassy. What had been in those pills? 

Sena didn't see how he was going to play at all in that condition, but his presence had an immediate effect. There was a certain shock factor in seeing him standing before them now, when the last they'd seen of him, he'd been smeared across the grass. The team gathered around him, some of their gloom lifting. Even Sena, who'd been granted a peek behind curtain, a tiny glimpse at how the magic worked, still couldn't help but feel awed at how smoothly Hiruma settled back into his role, snapping at Juumonji for being out of position, threatening Taki to make himself useful before they had to call his sister to come arrest him. 

They weren't the only ones shocked. Now that he had started watching for these things, Sena thought he detected a new wariness in the enemy formation—they spread out, as if anticipating that anything might now be possible.

And Kurita. Some of the light seemed to have come back into the giant's eyes. Komusubi made a happy grunt as Kurita finally got up from where he was sitting. He didn't rush over, as Sena might have expected, only plodded slowly to Hiruma, tears streaming down his face. For a moment, it looked like he might reach out to hug Hiruma, who would no way be able to withstand it, not in his condition. But then Kurita only squared his massive shoulders. He patted Komusubi's helmeted head, in gratitude, or reassurance. And he nodded at Hiruma—a promise, uncharacteristically somber, and all the more resolute for it. 

"Don't be so fucking serious, you fatty," Hiruma cackled. "They can't kill me, and they sure as hell won't see this coming. Huddle up!" This last was normally accompanied by a round-up arm gesture, but this time, Hiruma only tossed his head. 

Unsettled, Sena hurried over, Musashi a reluctant step behind him. The team started to put their arms over each others' shoulders, before the ones adjacent to Hiruma realized he wasn't doing it, and there was an awkward moment of whether or not to drop them.

"We're absolutely fighting Shinyruuji next week, and they have a little trick we're going to borrow," Hiruma said, as if he didn't notice the confusion. "The Dragonfly. Two fucking quarterbacks." Hiruma grinned at Sena, and then over his head at Musashi. "Bonus side effect, it's going to piss Agon the hell off, make those fucking dreads shoot right off his head. Like missiles."

With that image in mind, Sena settled into position next to Hiruma. In practice, they had passed the ball back and forth, but today Hiruma backed away as soon as Sena caught the snap, and he knew. 

Hiruma couldn't hold the ball. 

Sena couldn't afford to think about it much longer, because Gaou was abruptly in front of them and—before the terror could set in—Kurita too, rushing at Gaou with all the force of a cannon shot. 

"Yes!" Gaou roared with pleasure, bracing against the onslaught. "This is the fight I've been looking for!" 

The roar that Kurita returned wasn't pleasure, but wordless fury. It was all the time Sena needed to make the pass. Monta snatched it right out of the air, and Sena couldn't help but cheer to himself. Then he turned to see Hiruma watching him, and quailed slightly. It hadn't been a particularly clean throw, nothing like Hiruma's laser precision. He could only hope he had passed judgment.

When Hakushuu switched to offense, the first thing Marco did was throw the ball towards Hiruma, even though he had no good reason to. A clear test. 

Hiruma was alone, cut off from the rest of the team. As the ball came to him, he didn't even make a move for it, just grimly ran past it, as if to head off Hakushuu's receiver with his body. 

It didn't help. Hakushuu got the ball, and Sena knew without a doubt that Hiruma wouldn't have allowed that if there had been any helping it. Did that mean his arms were useless now? Both of them?

The next break came, and Hiruma stormed off the field, mouth twisted. Marco would have figured out the same thing, which meant most of Hiruma's threat as a quarterback was gone. So why was Hiruma marching towards him now? Unwilling to let Hiruma disappear from sight again, Sena found himself following not far behind. 

Marco saw them coming, and lifted a sculpted eyebrow. "Cola?" he offered a bottle to Hiruma. "Oh, my mistake, of course you can't hold it."

Undeterred, Hiruma came to a stop, and sat himself down on Marco's cooler, slamming the lid shut with his rear end. "Let's make a bet."

"Against you? Anyone knows that's a losing proposition." Marco slid his hand over the top of his cola, and the bottle cap snapped off with his touch, like a magic trick. He spotted Sena staring, and winked, flashing his palm, and the undersides of the many glinting rings on his fingers, to show how it was done.

"You already know I can't use my arms anymore," Hiruma said, no attempt to hide it. "You still too chicken to bet on this match?" 

Marco took a thoughtful sip from his bottle. "Depends on what you're betting."

"I've seen you eyeing the fucking shrimp." Hiruma tilted his head at Sena. "You can have him."

Marco choked on his soda, and Sena felt the blood drain right out of his face. He was too well-trained to make a sound, but only just. 

"To _borrow_ , you fucking eyelashes, don't get ahead of yourself."

"And if you win?" Marco sputtered. 

Hiruma jerked his chin up, a beckoning motion, and Marco hesitantly leaned in. "Closer than that, you can't accommodate a fucking cripple?"

Reluctantly, Marco leaned all the way in, and Hiruma pressed right into his ear, whispering, a nasty grin lighting up his face the whole time. 

When he leaned back, Marco looked appalled. "See?" he said, a little weakly. "I always said you were scary."

"Yes or no, fucking eyelashes?"

"You really have it out for Shinryuuji, don't you? Should I be worried?" Marco gestured to Hiruma's wrapped arms, that he'd ordered broken, but Hiruma only laughed.

"You'll get what's coming to you, don't worry."

Marco winced. "I'll take your bet. I'd shake on it, but..."

Hiruma shot to his feet happily. "Don't try to weasel out of this one," he said, already walking away.

"Oh, I won't," Marco said, with a lingering look at Sena.

"Master..." said Sena, when they were far enough Marco wouldn't hear. 

But if Hiruma heard either, he pretended not to. 

***

Agon caught them on the way back. "The nerve of you trashes," he sneered. One moment he was still a ways off, the next he was grabbing Hiruma by the front of his jersey, all but lifting him off the ground. "Using our Dragonfly so sloppily? You'll rub your garbage smell off on us."

"Attacking an injured opponent? In front of the entire fucking crowd?" Hiruma sneered right back. "You just get dumber, don't you?"

"Opponent?" Agon scoffed, but he did release his hold. "You trash didn't count as opponents even when you had arms to fight with. Pathetic."

Over Agon's robed shoulder, Sena saw their team rushing over, but the person who shoved his way between them was the last Sena would have expected—Musashi, looking wan and grim and every bit as determined as Kurita had against Gaou. Without so much as touching Agon, he simply planted himself between Agon and Hiruma, and said, firmly, "Leave."

"Bodyguarding for your new master?" Agon said. "So he's training the mutt as a guard dog now?"

" _Leave,_ " Musashi repeated. The rest of the team was closing in now, and Agon had no good reason not to—but he couldn't seem to resist taking a parting swipe at Musashi's face, aiming for the eyes. He stopped short of making contact, but Musashi still flinched, and that was good enough for Agon, who left, chuckling to himself. 

Musashi held it together until the team gathered around them, and then he sagged, bracing his hands on his knees, exhaling in fast, ragged breaths. He nodded at Kurita, who was just coming up to them now, and said, "End this."

"That fucking eyelashes has to go down," Hiruma said. 

Kurita swallowed heavily, but something unspoken had passed between the three of them, and they were all in grim agreement. 

Sena wouldn't know what it was until they formed up for their next play. There was something different in the air this time, and the enemy team seemed to sense it too. Gaou grinned, ready to face Kurita once again, but Kurita didn't respond, didn't even seem to notice. When the play started, the rest of the line held Gaou, and Kurita charged right past, straight into their back line. With Gaou tied up, no one else stood a chance of stopping this unexpected force. 

"We can play that game too," Hiruma said, as Kurita bore down on Marco—who had ordered too many others taken out, in the exact same way, to even look surprised. That, or there simply wasn't enough time for it to register, until the shadow was upon him.

The whistle blew, and everything came to a hushed stop, for the second time that game. In the distance, the paramedics were already on their way with the stretcher.

For some reason, as the dust settled, it was Maria that Sena found himself staring at. 

Standing on the opposite side of the field, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

An icy expression frozen over her face, as she watched her quarterback go down.


	52. Down time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates! I bit off more than I can chew with fic exchanges, and I'm also half-seriously planning an extended story for Whumptober. (If it happens, it will literally just be problematic bad porn with zero redeeming value, so I ask that you please avert your gaze from my account for the next month.) (Unless you happen to be into that sort of thing.) 
> 
> There are only 1-2 chapters left in this fic, and I plan to take a quick posting break and then have them out for you in November. Please bear with me, and as always, thanks for reading! 

After the Hakushuu match, Sena didn't see his master for days. Two and a half of them, if he was counting. Which he was.

It shouldn't have been a problem. With finals fast approaching, it was obvious what was expected of him—practice, practice, practice. Even when Hiruma was around, he never demanded much of Sena apart from that. 

Besides, it wasn't like he'd never been left on his own before. With previous owners, he would have seen the down time as no less than a wondrous reprieve, especially if he'd been allowed a fraction as much freedom during it as he was here.

But.

Somehow, every day that passed without a glimpse of his master only increased the tight anxiety balling up in his chest—and it was getting steadily harder to ignore. 

"You know cats? How when they get hurt, they hole up somewhere to lick their wounds?" was Musashi's explanation, when Sena screwed up the courage to ask. After a long day of practice, he'd been sitting in the kitchen, working through the football manual, when Musashi came in for tea. 

"Is he, um, holed up with you?"

"What, you can't hear him cursing and complaining in there?" Musashi jiggled the teabag in his cup, maybe to get it to steep faster.

"I should make that for you." Sena's hands twitched restlessly, not quite reaching out for it, and he received a patient smile in return.

"It's not hard." Musashi blew into his drink, and seemed about to disappear back into his room with it. Then he paused. "You can, you know."

Can what? Sena wasn't sure, but he stood up on reflex, in case Musashi was about to ask him to do something. 

"You can come check on him. He's not going to hurt you." A beat. "But I will say, he's, ah, not exactly happy."

Sena shivered. By all rights, Hiruma should be taking out that unhappiness on him. Even a broken arm or two should be no obstacle. 

"Want me to take a message to him?"

Sena started to shake his head, then remembered. "W-well there is something... I mean, am I still allowed to train with Shin?"

Musashi's eyebrows folded, puzzled. As if to give himself some time to parse the question, he took a sip of his tea. 

"It's just... tomorrow's Wednesday, so, he might be expecting... I-if he shows up here, I don't know if I'm supposed to... go with him... or not?"

"I don't follow. You've been training together for months. Why shouldn't you?"

Sena's face flushed at the prospect of explaining. _I couldn't keep my lips to myself and I don't know if master trusts me anymore,_ he could have said, if he wanted to then perish in a fiery ball of embarrassment. "Um, m-master said..."

"What did he say this time?" Musashi sighed, exasperated. 

If he had only gotten it clear the first time! But Sena had been too afraid to ask. Hiruma had been angry about what Sena had done, had made it clear it wasn't to happen again. But was he against training with Shin in general? Or would he want Sena to get every possible advantage, leading up to finals?

"You know what," Musashi cut in; Sena must have been silent too long. "Don't think so hard, kid. I'll just ask him."

***

That was how Sena found himself jogging after Shin the next day, feeling like a coward. They were probably headed back to the park, but Sena didn't check, just followed where Shin led. 

"You're moving strangely," Shin said suddenly, breaking the silence. 

Sena jumped, which must have looked even stranger. He was maintaining half a stride behind Shin, and hadn't even known he was being watched. 

"Are you injured?"

"N-no, it's nothing," Sena said automatically, and looked down at his left arm. It was hurting less than it had after the match, which hadn't been very much at all, to begin with. It was nothing compared to what Hiruma had gone out there with, and he definitely hadn't thought it could affect his running. 

But here they were—so either he was wrong, or Shin was just incredibly observant. 

"If something's bothering you, I should know." Shin brought them to a stop, just a crosswalk and a few steps from the park entrance. "We can't risk you sustaining new injuries, at such a critical juncture."

The intensity of the scrutiny Shin fixed on him was enough to make Sena squirm. It had never been a good thing in his life, to have this amount of attention focused on him, or his weaknesses. But Shin was different. Trustworthy.

Reluctantly, he straightened his arm about as much as he could, and winced. "I don't think it's anything major. It must have been when Marco was trying to get the ball from me, in the second half..."

Sena trailed off as Shin took his arm, and proceeded to roll up his sleeve, with brisk, practical motions. "Let me know if this hurts." 

Abstractly, he knew it was freezing out, but all he could feel was the heat of Shin's palm under his elbow, and the two warm fingers Shin began to carefully press down the length of his inner arm, down past the crook of his elbow, all the way to his wrist. There, he couldn't have missed the mad flutter of Sena's suddenly racing pulse, but he didn't comment, only flipped Sena's arm over, and made his way back up. 

"Nothing?" Shin said, turning his measuring gaze from Sena's arm back to his face. 

"It was fine," Sena squeaked, pulling his arm back. "Like I said, it's nothing, really."

"Even a minor imbalance can—" Shin began.

"I'm really sorry about last time—" Sena said simultaneously, before they both stopped. 

Shin turned away first, and resumed jogging. "We don't have to discuss it," he said, which should have been enough. 

Shin didn't want to talk about it, so that should be the end of it. 

Except, everything felt so confusing right now, without his master's presence, with finals looming ahead, and then the great yawning unknown that was next. Normally an expert at avoiding conflict, Sena only managed to contain himself for another few jogging steps, before he said, "I just, I don't know why I did it. I feel like I'm going— Like I can't even predict what my own body's going to do, I—"

"I understand," said Shin calmly, as they entered the park. "We don't have a great deal of control in our lives. Perhaps you, moreso than me. It's not uncommon to behave erratically in those circumstances. I don't need to know more than that."

"It's not that," said Sena, though maybe it was that. "Maybe I have too _much_ control. Too many choices. It's really... I'm not used to that."

"You'd rather Hiruma were more strict with you? It's an unusual complaint, for a slave."

Shin didn't look or sound condemning, but Sena abruptly realized how ridiculous and self-centered he was being. How could he complain about this, when Shin... Shin's friend... 

They passed the bus stop, the locker bank, in renewed silence. Shin picked an old trail this time, one that went steeply uphill, and Sena focused for a while on managing the terrain, and his own breathing. 

"Is it okay that you're still training with me?" he said after a while. "Even though you don't have any games coming up?" It was more obvious than ever that these sessions were about helping Sena, no matter what Shin said.

"The season is over, but training continues."

"D-did... were you punished? For losing?"

"I haven't heard from Miracle lately," Shin said thoughtfully. "He might be busy with another project." They moved to the side, to allow a family coming the other way to pass, then resumed. "Are you still afraid of losing?"

"Yes," said Sena, before he realized Shin was talking about something else altogether—how terrified he'd been, earlier in the tournament, that one loss would mean death. "I mean, no. I... I just really want to win this, Shin." Come to think of it, he still didn't know what would happen, if they didn't make it. Hiruma said he wouldn't kill him, but... then what? 

"Good," Shin said, over the rising volume of Sena's internal monologue. "That will help."

Sena studied the back of Shin's head. He remembered, with a sudden sharp clarity, what it had felt like to have his arm around Shin's shoulders, the spiky softness of Shin's hair crushing against his hand, until he could feel the sweat and heat underneath. "Did you... like it?" he said, voice lowering in volume with each syllable, "when I... kissed—"

"You're slowing down."

For someone as direct and honest as Shin, the deflection felt like a blow. It took the breath out of Sena, and made it doubly hard to increase his pace and catch up. He knew he was better off leaving it like this. Hiruma didn't approve, and that was the final say in the matter.

"Please—sort things out with yourself, before we have this conversation," Shin said. It would have been harsh, if it hadn't come on the heel of what amounted to rejection. Compared to that, it was almost an easing up. "And with your master."

"Sorry," said Sena quietly. "I'm sorry."

"How are his injuries?" Shin said, and this time Sena was grateful for the change in topic.

"I don't know. I haven't even seen him."

"You're worried," Shin said, sparing him a backwards glance. There was nothing but concern in that look, and Sena felt something loosen in his chest. They were okay. He was okay. "Did he say you're not allowed to ask?"

"No, he didn't say that." He hadn't said anything to Sena. He hadn't been around to. That was kind of the problem. 

"Then perhaps you're allowed," Shin said, "to ask."

It sounded reasonable enough. Sena pondered that the rest of the way up the hill, until the training took his full attention.

***

When Sena finally went to Musashi's room, he was armed with hot drinks.

He'd found a tray in one of the cabinets, sturdy enough to hold two mugs, and spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide if it would be okay to take it. 

In the end, it made him feel safer, to have something to offer. It almost felt like he was carrying out an an actual service, even if it had been completely unasked for—the tray held in front of him felt a little like a shield. He'd even considered making something more elaborate, but he didn't have any actual cooking skills, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it wouldn't have been welcome. 

Standing outside Musashi's room, he hesitated, trying to steel himself. He remembered suddenly how much this door had frightened him, back on his first day here. 

Since then, it had simply become background scenery, that he glanced past every day. It was only now, putting off knocking, that he noticed—the padlock was conspicuously missing, the latch removed. Even the doorframe was even and unblemished, as if they had never been. He had the mental image of Musashi taking a screwdriver to it late one evening, going over the surface with sandpaper to scrape away every trace. 

Only the hinges on the opposite side, still loose, showed it for the same door Sena had once crouched in front of in fear, listening for the screams that came from within. 

Maybe what lay behind now was also less threatening than what he imagined. Taking a deep breath, Sena freed one hand, balancing the tray in the other, and knocked. 

The door cracked open to reveal Musashi's face, brow furrowed. He took in Sena's nervous form, the tray he held out like an offering, and surprise softened into understanding. "This one for me?"

Sena nodded silently, half hoping Musashi would take the whole thing and shut the door in his face. Instead, Musashi only took his cup, and stepped back, revealing Hiruma sitting up in bed, squinting at him, and Kurita by the window, book open on his lap. 

"Oh," said Sena, "Sorry, Kurita, I didn't bring you a drink, I didn't know... I can go get another one..."

"Sena!" was Kurita's eager response. He lifted his book briefly, showing a too-brief glimpse of the cover for Sena to make out. "Did you come to listen too?"

"Listen?" Figuring he'd better deliver his existing drink first, Sena brought the tray to his master, and presented it timidly, eyes lowered. If his presence had been wanted, he would have been called for. Any minute, Hiruma was going to tear his head off, he deserved it, what had he been thinking—

"That's the most initiative I've seen out of you yet, you fucking shrimp."

Sena lifted his head, startled.

"Just one question—how am I supposed to drink that?"

Hiruma's bandaged arms were arranged on either side of him, resting on top of the covers. Normally always busy with something or another, it was strange to see them so still, to see Hiruma inert. 

"I-I'm so sorry," Sena stammered in horror. He couldn't even get the words out of his mouth properly. "I w-wasn't thinking, I—"

"Stop teasing him," Musashi demanded, from the doorway, and Hiruma snorted.

"Help me out then," Hiruma said, and Sena looked up just in time to see Hiruma lick his lower lip, a sharp flick of tongue. This could go so wrong, Sena thought, but he had no choice. Nervously, he tipped the mug to Hiruma's lips, every muscle rigid in his absolute concentration on the task. 

"That's right, Marco said we should get some of those bendy straws," Kurita said innocently, with no apparent concept of how awful that statement was, coming from the man who'd put Hiruma in this state to begin with. 

"When did you talk to Marco?" said Musashi. 

"Oh, uh," Kurita opened his mouth, then closed it. "I, um..." He began to touch his fingertips together, guiltily, rustling the pages of the book in his lap. 

"You went to visit him, didn't you?" Hiruma said, pulling back, and Sena took the mug away immediately, to find it half drained. "Hope you brought him some of his own fucking flowers. Serve him right."

"How's he doing?" Musashi asked.

"Nothing broken or anything," said Kurita, with the air of a heavy burden being lifted from him. "He might take a break from football for a while, though. He said he was thinking of opening a restaurant. I hope that's not our fault. That was a scary game, but it was fun to compete against Gaou. Uh, not that it was fun that you got injured, Hiruma..." 

Hiruma ignored him. He managed to gesture, with head motions, that he was done with the coffee. He had a very expressive neck. Sena put the mug back on the tray, and waited, uncertain. 

"Did you come in here just to see the pathetic fucking state I'm in, or was there something else?"

"Honestly, I'm getting sick of having to change your bandages," Musashi put in. "Let Sena do it for once."

Hiruma's eyes flattened in obvious denial, and Sena backed away hastily. "I-I'll just go."

"No, wait," said Hiruma. "Come back here."

Caught a few short steps from the safety of the exit, Sena swiveled in place. Like a prisoner marching to execution, he slowly walked back to the bed. 

"Turn around. All the way around."

Increasingly bewildered, Sena made a full rotation, exchanging a confused glance with Musashi and Kurita in turn. 

"Now lift the fucking tray up. Higher than that!"

Sena lifted the tray over his head, all the way up, until his arms began to shake. Only when the mug started rattling was he given the order to lower it. 

"Let me take that," said Musashi, but he'd lost some of his amused air. 

"You had that since the match?" said Hiruma. If Musashi had gone serious all of a sudden, Hiruma's tone was as grim as grave dirt. Sena knew at once what he was talking about.

"I-I didn't really even get hit. He just kind of pushed..."

"And when," Hiruma's voice lowered dangerously, "were you going to say anything?"

It suddenly dawned on Sena that he was in trouble. A lot of trouble. Shin noticing within minutes of seeing him should have been the first sign, but he'd been... distracted. 

Anything that interfered with his performance was going to be a problem for Hiruma. 

He had messed up. Bad.

Without wasting another moment, Sena went down to his knees, and then his hands too, because he was trembling too hard to stay upright. It had been a while since he'd groveled like this, but his body remembered the position, and slipped into it with ease. 

"Jesus, Hiruma." Musashi set the tray down on his desk, and then turned back to Sena. "You're not in trouble—"

"Of course he's in fucking trouble, his fucking arm isn't working right, and he wasn't going to fucking tell me—"

"Like you've been so easy to get a hold of—"

"—if he's not in top condition for the match—"

"No one's going to be in top condition for the match." Musashi made sweeping gesture to Hiruma lying in his bed. There was a lot of pent up anger encapsulated in that gesture. "Like you haven't been reckless with your own body. Leave him alone."

"Take him to the hospital, get him checked out. If I hear there's a single thing wrong with him—"

Musashi inhaled deeply. 

"What? Go!"

"I. Can't. Drive," Musashi said, though gritted teeth, all the more furious Hiruma was making him say it. 

"Of course you can drive. You took me and the fatass to the Christmas Bowl the same day you got your fucking license. Almost made us miss it, taking so fucking long on the test—"

"I'm not _certified_ to drive," Musashi sneered, "by you. That's what what a _slave_ needs to drive, not some damn license."

"I can take Sena," said Kurita anxiously, trying to put himself in between the two of them. For a moment they both rounded on him, and seemed ready to fight their way through him. Then, at about the same time, they both subsided, Musashi leaving the room, Hiruma turning to face the wall.

"Let's go, Sena," said Kurita. "We'll take the car."

Still fixed in his kneeling position, Sena hesitated. His master hadn't said—

Without looking back at them, Hiruma flicked his head in a shooing motion.

"Say hi to that fucking eyelashes for me, while you're there."

***

When the doorbell rang a second time, Monta turned to Sena and said, "Should we get that?" 

There were only a few days left before the game, but with Hiruma absent, there hadn't been any big group practices. Kurita had taken the linemen for their regular training, but the rest of the team was nowhere to be seen, and it seemed odd that Sena and Monta were the only ones in the practice yard. 

Before Sena could think through whether it would displease Hiruma more if they answered the door, or left it, Monta was already dropping his weights and heading back inside. He slid open the back door and said, "Oh, you're here."

Sena hurried after him, to see Hiruma sitting at the kitchen table, looking almost normal, except his laptop was closed in front of him, and he was just staring out into the kitchen cabinets, as if reading the grain on the wood. 

"...master?"

"Where have you been?" said Monta, more bold. "What are you doing, just sitting here?" 

Hiruma's gaze focused on them, and he frowned. "Strategizing," he said. His arms seemed to be particularly still, resting on the table in front of him, on either side of the laptop. 

"The doorbell's ringing," Monta said.

"Then go get it, fucking monkey."

That answered that. 

Monta rolled his eyes and went, while Sena lingered near his master, uncertain. He thought he should offer to fetch something, but he hadn't managed to work up the nerve by the time an unexpected voice called, "Sena!" from behind. 

Sena turned to find Mamori in the doorway, dressed in a puffy jacket against the cold, a bulky tote bag slung over her shoulder. Monta was hovering behind her, seemingly trying to do the gentlemanly thing and take it from her, without much luck. 

She took in the state of the room, Hiruma, Sena, and then went back to Hiruma. "Are you just sitting here doing nothing?" she said, striding across the room to grab a glass from the cabinet, with a surprising familiarity. Rinsed it, and began to fill it with water from the tap. 

"I was working," Hiruma said, "right up until you showed up." 

Sena didn't point out the obvious lie, and Monta seemed too distracted to. He went to kneel down by Hiruma's side instead, tucking himself between table and chair. Every time they'd seen Mamori before, Hiruma had always made a point of showing off Sena's obedience. Sena didn't have to understand why, he just had to follow suit. 

From the sink, Mamori made a choked noise, and Sena felt a little guilty, but only a little—especially when Hiruma patted him on the head. It sent a swell of relief through his entire body, that he'd finally managed to do something right—and that it seemed Hiruma could still use his arm a little, after all. 

"Why did you show up here, anyway? What, the fucking eyebrows got sick of you hovering?"

"I don't hover." Mamori said, putting the glass of water down, next to the untouched laptop. "Sena, Monta, do you want one?"

Hiruma silently raised an eyebrow at this, and she flushed. "I don't hover! Oh, whatever, I'm not here to talk to you. I'm here for Sena. And Monta. I brought you both some textbooks. I think it's time you start studying."

"Studying?" Monta said. 

"You never got a chance to finish your schooling. I think you'll need it, for when you're free."

Monta might have looked intrigued, but Sena was too busy freaking out to notice. How could Mamori just say things like that, and in front of Hiruma, no less? 

Besides, Sena had a job to do here, and his master wouldn't want anything interfering with his practice time. 

He waited for Hiruma to snap something to that effect, probably carried on a healthy tide of profanities, but Hiruma just turned his gaze back to the cabinets again. "Not before finals," he said flatly. 

"I was thinking we'd do some placement tests first, to check how much you both remember," Mamori went on, as if she hadn't heard. She began to unload her bag, which produced the promised textbooks, far more than it should have been able to carry. "Then we'll build a curriculum from there, and decide when to have you sit for exams. It doesn't have to be right away, Sena, I know it's been a long time. But it will be good to have a sense..."

As she went on, Sena buried his face against Hiruma's leg. His master's hand was still resting on the back of his head, still hadn't turned rough against him, dug in, clawed, or twisted. He probably wasn't angry, then, but that could change, if Sena said or did the wrong thing. In such a dangerous situation, it was better not to do anything, not even look, and let Hiruma handle it as he pleased. 

"Do you have any trigonometry books in there? Because I'm really good at that," boasted Monta. Sena thought he remembered Monta trying to help Torakichi with his homework, without much success, but what did he know? 

"Quite a few math books," Mamori confirmed, a smile in her voice, and Monta cheered. 

"Where are those tests, I can do one now. I used to rock these—"

"We'll want to set up a clean testing environment," said Mamori. "And a dedicated time. Here, Hiruma, let me have that laptop, if you're not using it."

There was the shuffle of the laptop starting to slide across the table, and then the sound of Hiruma's hand falling on it heavily, before it could be moved far. "When did you learn how to use a computer, fucking manager?"

"Hiruma," Mamori sighed, "We're not in high school anymore. People change."

"Then don't fucking waltz back in here, like you're still one of us."

There was a drawn-out, offended silence. Then, "Is that what this is about?"

"What?" Hiruma snapped.

"What's your plan for Agon?"

"The fucking dreads?"

"That's what you're worried about, isn't it? Let's talk strategy, then."

"What strategy?" Hiruma snorted. "He's impulsive. Fucking dreads-for-brains. Keeps coming by to cause trouble, like a fucking stray, without thinking it through. Who'd be worried about that?"

There was another long silence, equally expressive. Sena imagined that Mamori was looking down at Hiruma's bandaged-up arms. Finally, she came around the table, and put her hand on Sena's shoulder, urging him to get up. Hiruma didn't stop her.

"If you're not worried, then you can spare these two for some studying. Can't you?"

***

On the day of finals, Hiruma appeared half-dressed in the locker room, and beckoned Sena over. "How's the fucking arm?" he said.

It might have been funny coming from his master, whose arms were still wrapped, all the way up to his sleeves. Hiruma had said Sena wouldn't be playing quarterback, but it didn't seem like something Hiruma could do on his own, especially since he needed Sena's help getting dressed. 

"It's fine," Sena reported dutifully, and showed the full range of motion, before he helped Hiruma into his jersey. 

Next, he bent down to lace up Hiruma's cleats—then froze, when Hiruma said, "You been studying, like that fucking manager told you?"

Hiruma had talked Mamori down to an hour a day, until the end of the tournament, but Sena didn't know if it was just to get her to leave—and had immediately disappeared again, so he couldn't ask. Now he shook his head nervously, unsure if he'd made the right call. "I don't even know where to start."

"You know she's a teacher, right?"

She'd mentioned students a few times, in their brief time together, so Sena had gathered that. 

"Should have known she'd try something like this. Well, her kids make it through the year, so she's got to be decent at her job."

Sena tightened the last lace silently, but didn't get up. He wasn't really sure what his master was trying to tell him. That he should get Mamori to tutor him? What did that have to do with football? How would that serve Hiruma's goals? 

Keeping his hands on Hiruma's shoe and ankle, he said softly, "What will you do with me? If we lose this?"

Hiruma's leg twitched slightly, and Sena let go. "I'll free you."

It was so outrageous, stated so simply, that Hiruma had to be watching for a reaction. Sena knew it, but he still couldn't help a shudder. It was even worse than he'd thought. 

If they lost here, he'd be valueless to his master, not even worth selling. 

No wonder it had been so easy to bet him against Marco. At any stage in the tournament, if they'd lost, Hiruma would have been fine just giving Sena away. 

"What if we win?" he said.

" _When_ we destroy Shinryuuji?" Hiruma corrected, standing up. "Then you get to decide what happens to you. Let's go."

The game got off to an explosive start. Shinryuuji flipped for the first offensive, and they immediately went for their own dragonfly formation, as if to show how it was meant to be done. Agon and Unsui, twin quarterbacks, tore down the field with terrifying speed, and scored their first touchdown without Deimon even coming close to intercepting.

"That's the difference that talent makes," Agon declared, getting in Hiruma's face, instead of going back to his side of the field. "Never in a million years will you trash match up to us."

Then it was Deimon's turn. 

Sena waited anxiously to see what the formation would be. Hiruma couldn't possibly throw the ball like that. And he couldn't possibly do nothing but hand-offs for the whole game, could he? 

But he was indeed marching onto the field, taking his customary position, bandaged arms lax at his sides. "All right, you fucking monks. You had your shot, now it's time for a taste of our secret weapon. Ready, you fucking baldy?"

Convinced he couldn't have heard that right, Sena turned to the bench. But sure enough, Yukimitsu was standing up, buckling his helmet with shaky fingers. 

Sena had never seen him on the field before, not in a real stadium, and that first step over the line only seemed to make him shakier. 

By the time he took his position next to Hiruma, though, he had squared up his shoulders, and blew out the last of his nerves on a deep, steadying breath. "I'm ready." 

A muttering had come up from the Shinryuuji side of the field. "Is this a joke?" Agon said, while Unsui put a placating arm out, as if to hold him back.

"Take a look, you fucking dreads," Hiruma cackled over them, as Yukimitsu bent, hands out at a thoroughly practiced angle, ready to receive the snap. "This zero-talent baldy has been training his ass off, night and day, with the sole purpose of kicking your ass. It's a match of talent versus pure fucking effort. Which do you think will win?"


	53. Thoughts and prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! You may have thought I've spent the last month+ polishing up this chapter to perfection, rather than procrastinating like an idiot. You would be incorrect. :) 
> 
> One of the reasons for the chapter title is because we're riding in some rather thinky characters' heads today, and there's a lot of navel-gazing and introspection, as if there hasn't been enough of that already. Brace yourselves...
> 
> There is one last short chapter coming, hopefully in the next week or two!

Something was wrong.

Already starting to shiver in the cold winter air, sweat from his warmup chilling on his skin, Yukimitsu felt himself freeze up completely when he was called—too soon.

Hiruma wasn't panicking, though. He was acting as if this was perfectly normal. Just an expectant jerk of the head and a, "Come on, fucking baldy," like this was exactly what they had planned, like this wasn't way earlier than they had talked about.

Fair enough. If nothing else, Yukimitsu could take a cue. 

He wouldn't panic either. Wouldn't react. 

Would calmly jam his helmet on, over his churning thoughts, and fumble with the straps, fingers suddenly clumsy as sausages on a task they'd executed a thousand times over. 

Somehow, stiffly planting one foot in front of the other, he managed a robotic shuffle onto the field. That first step onto the grass, still crunchy with frost, might as well have been a step onto the moon. He was sure his cleat sinking in would leave an imprint, as momentous as an astronaut's boot, and be framed on some child's bedroom wall, printed in some history book. Yukimitsu Manabu, nerd, accountant, pencil-pusher, was really about to play football. 

Then his other foot came down, and he was standing on the field proper, and abruptly slapped in the face with sound, and light, and commotion, crashing over him in a great wave. The oppressive weight of thousands of eyes bore down on him, pressing him down. 

How many times had Hiruma said it, during practice? That he didn't have the stamina for this, that his body couldn't handle playing an entire game? There were one or two substitutes in the pool that Hiruma was willing to rotate in. If worst came to it, Sena had proven himself last week. Yukimitsu wouldn't need to go on until the second half at the earliest. He'd have more time to mentally prepare. 

That had been the plan, anyway. 

Yukimitsu liked plans, always had. There had been a turning point in his life, when he'd thrown away his carefully laid-out career, his tidy little existence, and he'd thought it meant throwing away plans altogether. That he'd be a new person, who embraced spontaneity, and adventure, and impulse. 

A couple days foraging in the scrubby mountain woods had disabused him of that notion. 

Plans were good. Stability was good. That morning, he'd finished his stretches and planned to sit on the sidelines for however long it took for Hiruma to give the signal. 

Maybe it would never come, and he'd leave the game listening to his teammates' excited play-by-plays as always, while he looked wistfully on. It was how his life had always gone, and if he'd been expecting any change to the plan, it would have been that—for Hiruma to change his mind altogether and leave him hanging, helmet on his lap, waiting, watching, wanting. 

No one ever looked his way anymore, not after eight games of benchwarming. That was his advantage, or so he'd told himself, through the burning face, the prickle of pity stares running down his back. He was a quiet, innocuous, silently-ticking time bomb. No one would know he'd changed from the Yukimitsu at the start of this tournament: not the competition, not his teammates. He'd hardly believe it of himself until the moment he was sprung onto the field.

It was all part of the plan.

It just wasn't supposed to happen five minutes into the match. 

If he could only understand what had changed. He ran through the first five minutes in his head again. Shinryuuji with their two quarterbacks, zipping down the entire length of the field like lightning, fluid and unpredictable, utterly unstoppable. The touchdown. Agon going out of his way to gloat at Hiruma, a swagger in his step, a cruel light in his eyes, crowing something about talent. 

Talent, something that Agon was blessed with, something that Yukimitsu utterly lacked.

Was that it?

Could it be that Hiruma had played his hand this early, called Yukimitsu to the field prematurely... just to make a point? 

As he took his position, Hiruma nudged him with his shoulder, shoving him out of his thoughts, and sent him flashing back to their first meeting instead. He hadn't known Hiruma back then—which wasn't to imply that he particularly understood the inscrutable man now—hadn't known what to make of this person who was pushing him around, pressing him into the wall, dismissive and scrutinizing all at once. There was less force to the shove now, delivered with the blunt of his shoulder pad, or maybe Yukimitsu had gotten stronger since then. When Yuki gave him a questioning look, Hiruma shrugged toward the rest of the team, who were all staring at him with their mouths wide open. 

Of course. If Yukimitsu was surprised at being played so early, they weren't expecting to see him play at all. Like everyone else, his team still thought of him as dead weight. They had no reason to think any differently. Not yet.

"I'm ready," said Yukimitsu quietly, to reassure them, as much as himself. 

He was, wasn't he? He'd practiced for this. When it came down to it, it was no different than exams in school, or sitting for his license. He'd always been a nervous test-taker, but it was like he always told himself: all his effort, all his studying, that didn't just flow away overnight. No matter how nervous he was, he just had to trust that all the practice he'd put in was still within him somewhere, waiting to be put to use.

All those games on the bench, he'd been watching. Studying, in a way. And after a grueling day of training, when his body couldn't go any farther, he'd collapsed not into bed, but in front of replays of old Shinyruuji matches, with and without Agon. He knew how this team played, maybe even better than his own. Agon was a beast, but it was Unsui that he was nervous about. All the strategies they had in store would unravel with some careful thought, measured consideration, which the calmer twin was known for. From the merciless way Hiruma was taunting Agon now, it was clear he agreed. Even as Agon let himself get whipped up to frothing rage, it was Unsui who held the beast back. That could be trouble, if he continued to do so.

And then, before he knew it, the game was starting. After waiting so long, straining for something always out of reach, here he was, playing his first match, in the finals of the national tournament. It felt like a dream, one that ended with the explosive snap from Kurita, the leather of the ball rough against his hands, and disturbingly real. 

Hiruma was still standing with him, a second quarterback, in the formation they'd borrowed from the very team they were now playing against. With his arms in that condition, he shouldn't have made much of a decoy, but the confidence he exuded was enough to make even Yukimitsu look at him twice. Maybe his reputation alone would make the opponents hesitate. Could he hold a ball yet? Couldn't he? 

If it gave Yukimitsu just a bit more breathing room, he'd take it. As he fell back a step, desperately seeking out someone to pass to, the line was already crumbling in front of him, sending the enemy team zeroing in on him and him alone. He'd need any breathing room he could get. 

***

"They're mocking us," Agon snarled, crumpling his water bottle in his grip. "That gimp and that beancounter? Supposed to be our Dragonfly? Damn piece of trash doesn't even care about winning anymore, he's just here to make us look bad."

He punctuated his growl by slamming the bottle into the ground, where it bounced off the pavement and right back up. Sighing, Unsui caught it in midair. Why did this feel like a picture of their entire relationship? His brother ranting on about trash, while he was the one cleaning up the actual litter left behind?

"If you don't like it, we'll just show them the proper way," he said, as evenly as he could. Over Agon's shoulder, he made something like patient smile at Ikkyu and the others. He had this, or so he tried to project. He'd handle Agon. That was his self-appointed task. With the limited talents he'd been born with, it was the best thing he could do for his team. 

But only when Agon allowed himself to be handled.

Today, he'd let Hiruma work him into a frenzy, and showed no sign of stopping. He stormed onto the field, heedless of Unsui calling after him, "We're on defense," as if he might have just forgotten that it wasn't his turn to play.

There, Agon grabbed poor Harada by the back of his jersey, and all but slung him bodily off to the sidelines, intent on taking his place. 

"Agon!" Unsui hissed, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Shut up. I'm going to play this whole game. Attack, defense, I'll do it all. I'm going to grind that garbage imitation Dragonfly under my heel, crush them by the windpipe until they choke on it. I won't even let them come up for air, you hear me? If any of you lets them score even a single point, you'll have me to answer to."

Any protests Unsui would have used for another person—you haven't practiced for offense, playing twice as often will tire you out twice as quickly—all were meaningless against Agon's god-given talent. The truth was, any formation would be better with Agon in it, even unpracticed, and he wouldn't tire, not in the span of a single match. 

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he handed the crushed bottle off to a bewildered Harada, and approached his twin. How did they do it in the nature shows, soothing an elephant, or a tiger? 

"It doesn't pay to underestimate them." Unsui held up his palms. "Hiruma—"

"I'll save that piece of trash for last," Agon said. "I'll start with their benchwarmer quarterback. Crack that egghead skull of his so they have to send the shorty out, and fuck him up next. Hiruma can have the pleasure of watching all his plans fall apart, before I snap him like a twig."

It was as it had always been. 

Once Agon had it in his head to do something, all Unsui could do was watch. So it had been in their childhood, and so, it seemed, would it be today.

As he got off the field to wait with poor, relegated Harada, he spared a brief prayer for this new quarterback Hiruma had chosen. It was true what he'd said about lack of talent—Unsui had reviewed the data from the past matches, and found no trace of this Yukimitsu. It was only in some footage they had captured, of the Deimon crew at practice, that he could see Yukimitsu fumbling for the ball, losing his breath after a brief sprint, tripping over his feet as soon as someone even made a move to charge him. The poor man had no athletic ability whatsoever. 

If god creating talentless Unsui as a twin for Agon the prodigy was some cruel joke, then the devil Hiruma pitting Yukimitsu up against that same Agon was nothing short of slaughter. 

As Unsui watched, Agon charged the two quarterbacks with that swift animal grace that he couldn't help but envy, even after all this time. Agon ignored Hiruma, with his wrapped-up arms, and went straight for Yukimitsu. 

In a panic, the hapless player tried to hand the ball off to Sena, who nearly dropped it, and lost the head start he badly needed to a fumbling grab. In the end, he was driven out of bounds with the ball. He'd gained no distance at all, and looked even more panicked than he had at the start. Yukimitsu looked no better.

Temporarily deprived of his prey, but having gotten in a good swipe, Agon threw back his head and laughed, dreadlocks shaking out like a lion's mane.

There was no blood yet, but that didn't make it any less apparent what this was.

Slaughter, pure and simple. 

And Unsui, as always, there to watch it unfold. 

***

Sena was guzzling icy fountain water at halftime, when someone tapped him on the back of the head with the hard, plastic edge of what turned out to be a thermos. 

"It's hot," said Riku, tugging it just out of Sena's range when he reached for it, then grinning and giving it over. "Bet you can't guess whose idea that was." 

Sena glanced over Riku's shoulder, to find Mamori handing more of the flasks out, in Devilbat red and whites, to each member of the team. Clutching his between two hands, letting the heat steep out of it and thaw his numb face, Sena let his eyes drift closed as he took a long, slow sip of hot water. 

"Riku," he thought to ask eventually, "what are you doing here?

"It's the finals, Sena, are you crazy? We're all here to support you."

"All?" Sena opened his eyes a crack. 

"What, like we have anything better to do, now that we lost? A bunch of us got seats together, look." Riku gestured to a section of the stands, where Sena could finally make out the rest of the Seibu team. Without being pointed, he would barely have recognized them, out of uniform. Shin and the rest of the White Knights were there too. Even Sakuraba was sitting off to the side, surrounded by fans, scribbling autographs on whatever papers they could press into his hands. Miracle intercepted each one, handing it back with a flyer and a grin, and all but pushed each fan out of the way to make room for the next. 

Somehow, Shin noticed him watching, and lifted a solemn arm in greeting. A strange warmth filled Sena's chest, that had nothing to do with the hot drink. 

"Kid's still laid up, but you better believe he's watching live. Don't let us down, yeah?"

Sena gave an uncertain nod, only because he was too timid to state the obvious. Shinryuuji had charged ahead of them, and showed no signs of slowing down. Worse, Deimon had found no way to stop their unbeatable formation. If they were lagging this far behind in the first half, they stood little chance of catching up. How could Riku still be so confident? 

"Plus we have to be here for closing ceremonies, and all."

Sena's nodding got even slower and more uncertain. Now he was lost.

"In case the winners pick us, dummy. For the wish. You can pick anyone else in the tournament, remember?" Riku suddenly grew serious. "But you're not going to ask us, right? You're going to ask Hiruma, for your freedom. Like we were going to do for you, if we won."

A flush came to Sena's face, and he ducked his head. It felt somehow nostalgic, like they were kids again, and Riku was coaching him on exactly what to say to the teacher, when he was going to be late to class, or had made a mess of the art supplies. This time, though, Sena answered to someone else.

"Hey, Hiruma!" Riku called sharply. Sena snapped to attention, as he realized Hiruma and Yukimitsu had arrived. "You're going to say yes, right? When they ask you?" 

Yukimitsu got a thermos from Mamori.

Hiruma got an expectant look. 

The rest of the team had quieted down too, and Sena had the sense that Monta especially was listening, momentarily distracted even from fawning over Mamori, intent on the answer.

"Is that what you fucking slackers were waiting for? Some motivation to do your actual fucking jobs?" Hiruma mustered a passable cackle, but to Sena, he looked exhausted. He'd been on the field all game, but hadn't touched the ball once. There was something unsettling about watching him run with his arms lax at his sides. "Win or I'll kill you, how's that for motivation?"

Riku started to speak again, and Hiruma cut him off. "Earn that fucking wish, before you get ahead of yourselves thinking about what to ask for."

It wasn't what Hiruma had told Sena, but before he could ponder it farther, Yukimitsu had stumbled over, and collapsed onto the ground at his feet. "Sorry about that hand-off," he said, drinking shallowly from his bottle, between pants. "I almost made you drop it."

"N-no, that was all my fault," Sena said, "I should have been ready."

"Maybe you should be playing instead of me," Yukimitsu went on morosely. "Like you did against Hakushuu. You could just run the ball yourself, instead of needing me to fumble it to you."

"I..." Sena peeked at Hiruma, found him watching, and looked away hurriedly. "I'm sure master has a plan. You're doing really good."

"He's been shit," Hiruma said bluntly, making Yukimitsu flinch. "And you're about to get even worse, aren't you?" 

That second part was true, at least. Even from his position on the ground, Yuki looked about ready to keel over. Halftime break was almost over, and he was still breathing heavily, cheeks flushed from more than just the cold. At Hiruma's words, he seemed to sag, losing what energy was left holding him up.

"I didn't pick you to run with the ball. Outrunning the fucking dreads? In your state? Don't make me laugh."

"The plan was—" Yukimitsu began stiffly, intent on defending himself.

"I picked you," Hiruma went on, "because of that huge brain under your bald fucking dome. You've been watching all this time, haven't you? Every game until now. You'll find the pass routes no one else can see. Against that fucking dreads, who can get anywhere on the field in an instant, we need to find the one spot he can't see coming. Your body might be running out of steam, but I know your brain isn't. _That's_ why I picked you. That hasn't changed."

Yukimitsu opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a puff of breath, startled and opaque. Slowly, he closed it again.

"Honestly, you fucking dumbasses," Hiruma muttered. "If I wanted all my pieces the same, I'd still be on Shinryuuji. Shape up, we still have the entire second fucking half to play."

***

Deimon's performance picked up steadily after halftime. Yukimitsu made his first successful pass, to an unprecedented amount of cheering and dancing from his teammates, and Agon's growing fury. Unbelievably, Sena had gotten even faster than he'd been the week before. Even that overweight lineman, Kurita, whom Agon had purposely kicked out of Shinryuuji years ago, was more solid and determined than he'd ever been.

As the scores drew steadily closer, Unsui watched from a safe distance, and brooded, and despaired. 

For all the strategies he'd come up with, to deal with Agon's moods, he'd never found a good way to handle the threat of defeat. Because Agon so seldom experienced it, his rage in the face of it was all the more potent. 

By the end, he was tearing into his own team as much as the opponents. 

"Just don't fuck it up," he snarled at them, as the clock ran down into the single digits. "If I could split into twelve and play all your roles myself, I would. Instead I'm stuck with you garbage. Hold me back, and I'll end you myself." He barked out a series of orders, which everyone scrambled to follow.

"That leaves Hiruma open," Unsui pointed out, visualizing the field in his mind.

"Fuck Hiruma," Agon said. "He has no damn arms, and you're so scared of him."

"Those bandages could be—"

"You think if he could use them, he wouldn't have done it by now? Get real, Unko-chan. And get off my field. We're on defense," he said, an echo of Unsui's earlier words, in his own voice, with a mocking twist of his voice jammed onto the end.

"You said you wouldn't allow them a single point," Unsui protested. "Now we're almost tied. Don't underestimate Hiruma. You do your thing. I'll cover him."

"You?" Agon said, incredulous, sneering, as Unsui apologetically swapped places with Harada, making him slink off to the sidelines again. "You're going to play defense too, little brother? You might be my twin, but you don't have my talents."

"I'm well aware," Unsui gritted out. "It's nearly the end of the match anyway. Stamina doesn't matter at this point. I'll cover Hiruma, since you seem so intent on ignoring him."

Agon seemed intent on ignoring him too now. Or was he actually going to listen for once?

"Whatever," he muttered. "Just stop them," he growled at the rest of the team. And then they were off again. 

As soon as the ball was snapped, Agon went off like a shot, racing straight for Yukimitsu. The poor man was worse for wear, and looked absolutely exhausted, though he'd switched off several times throughout the match with substitutes. Unsui almost felt sorry for him, but he couldn't let his attention stray. 

When Agon covered someone, there was no need to worry about them anymore, except maybe to send them flowers in the hospital afterwards. 

Unsui had his own target to cover. 

His eyes tracked Hiruma as he swerved around, marking a strangely complicated loop, and brushed by Yukimitsu's side. A couple running strides later, and he could no longer hide it from Unsui's view. He'd taken it from Yukimitsu. 

Hiruma had the ball. 

Shocked, Unsui put on a fresh burst of speed. He had insisted out of an abundance of caution, but he hadn't honestly thought it was necessary. After an entire game of standing around, the last thing he expected was for Hiruma to actually spring into motion. There was no way he could've have caught the snap, so he'd let Yukimitsu catch it instead, and taken it from him. 

A distraction? 

He'd be looking to hand it back as soon as possible, or run it himself? Or hand it to someone new? 

If it was Sena, that could spell trouble. Agon could catch up with Sena, but Unsui might be left in the dust.

Unsui took his eyes off Hiruma for just a second, to look around for Sena's diminutive form. In that split second, Hiruma raised his bandaged arm overhead, and Unsui's eyes went wide.

Had he been bluffing all along, about his injuries? Was he that confident they could win, that he'd handicapped himself, and refrained from playing the entire game, until this very last play?

Even as his mind froze, Unsui's body pushed forward without needing to be told. If it had been his twin, he would have bowled Hiruma over in a heartbeat. Unsui wasn't fast enough, though. 

Unsui knew it. 

Hiruma knew it. 

As Unsui lunged forward, Hiruma grinned. His arm came forward and released the ball, just as Unsui tackled into him, sending them both sprawling. 

"Out of your whole team, only you came to cover me," Hiruma taunted, as Unsui scrambled back up, following the throw with craning neck and sinking heart. "What gave it away? How did you know my arm was fine?"

There was a tension in his voice, belying his words. Following the arc of the ball, Unsui could see why. The pass had gone wide, and Monta was scrambling backwards to catch up with it. 

Hiruma's throw, which always shot out with bullet precision, had gone off-course.

"It's not fine, is it?" Unsui said slowly, as Monta dove desperately for the ball, grabbing it by the corner, and the referee's whistle blew. "It didn't go where you wanted it." 

Which meant Hiruma hadn't been lying. His arms really were in bad shape, and it was only desperation that had forced him to play his final trick card. 

"You just broke it, didn't you? Making that throw. That's why you had to save this trick for the end of the match. Now it's dead for good."

Hiruma didn't try to get up, only grinned up at the sky. "Is it, though?" he said. "The end of the match?" 

"You can't possibly hope to score at this rate. In one shot?" 

He hadn't managed to stop Hiruma, true, but the pass had gone short. There were seconds left on the clock; they didn't have a hope of making it all the way to the endzone in their final play. Even a field goal would be impossible, at this distance. 

"It was an admirable attempt, but it's over for you. One quarterback exhausted, the other... well..." It occurred to him that Hiruma wasn't lying down to make a point. He either couldn't get up, or didn't want Unsui to watch him wiggle, without his arms, without dignity, until he managed it. 

As some of the other Devilbats came rushing up to help, Unsui backed away. 

Hiruma had broken his arm for that last throw, maybe crippled himself for good, and it wouldn't even win him the match. 

Truly a pity.

***

"That fucking monk," Hiruma seethed, staggering back to the rest of them on Musashi's shoulder. "Because he was watching, we only made it this far. We're going to have to go for the kick, no other choice."

Sena felt his stomach drop. If he was a better runner, his master could have entrusted this to him. He opened his mouth to offer, but was stopped by Musashi's hand falling on his shoulder, as soon as the two of them came within arm's reach.

"Easy, Sena," he said. "I got this."

Hiruma snorted. "Big talk, you fucking old man. You've never kicked this distance before."

"Then I have just one question for you," said Musahi calmly. 

Hiruma's eyes narrowed to a squint.

"What am I going to get out of it, when I win this whole thing for you?" 

That got a surprised laugh, barked out from Hiruma's chest. "You been listening to the fucking shrimps talk? Going to wish for your fucking freedom, or something?" 

"Is that something you're giving out, these days?"

"Enough," Hiruma pushed away from his friend, but he looked amused, if anything. "Are you all talk, or are you going to kick the fucking ball already?"

Agon was waiting for them, pacing, seething, all but sporting a cartoon vein throbbing on his forehead. "You trash don't know when to quit, do you? That mutt couldn't make this kick at his best, and now he's damaged goods. What the hell are you thinking, even trying?"

The taunting wasn't even directed at Sena, but he found himself quailing at the words. And Musashi—

Musashi was staring right back at Agon, as blankly as if the words had rolled right off of him, unheard. 

When he was kicking, Musashi normally had a way of zoning in on the ball, the goal, blocking out everything else around him. The way he looked at Agon now was something different. Something worrying. 

Sena remembered how shaken up he'd been, the last time Agon had appeared during their game. It was happening again, and who could blame him? Surely he was too shaken to do it now. Surely they couldn't let him face Agon alone.

"Master," he said anxiously. "Shouldn't I—"

"Shh," Hiruma said, and Sena swallowed his words.

The play started. Kurita and the rest of the linemen made a wall for Musashi, buying him time and space. Musashi took a running start, powerful legs pumping, and slammed the ball like a cannon.

Agon had broken through the line, and was just a few feet out. He jumped for the ball, but there was shock on his face before he even left the ground. Even as he leapt, he could tell it was going to go past him, slip right over his prodigy hands. 

The ball twirled wildly through the air in silence, and passed the goal to an ear-splitting whistle. By the time Agon landed back on the ground, the entire stadium was in an uproar. 

Musashi strode up to Agon where he was crouched, and loomed over him. "You're right, I never managed that kick before. You want to know how I did it today?"

Agon eased to his feet, gingerly, like he couldn't understand the parallel universe he'd found himself in, and couldn't even take gravity for granted. In response to Musashi's question, he spat on the ground at their feet.

"Effort," Musashi said, enunciating so clearly that Sena could read his lips, even over the clamor of the crowd. 

For a moment, the two of them stared each other down. Then Kurita came barreling over, scooping up Musashi with one arm, Hiruma already captured in the other, and Agon had to stumble away to avoid getting caught up in it. "We made it!" he sobbed, overjoyed, "We made it! We're going to the Christmas Bowl, can you believe it? We finally did it!"

"Watch the arm, you fucking fatty," Hiruma snapped. 

But there was a glow that Sena had never seen on his face before, as he was folded into Kurita's chest, Musashi caught right there beside him. 

***

It was the usual sort of thing, Unsui supposed, except it wasn't them on that stage, making the requests. It had been a number of years since that had happened, and he certainly hadn't expected to lose to Deimon, of all teams. 

The team was sat out now in two rows of folding chairs, looking even smaller laid out like that. Shinryuuji had always taken five rows. 

As they each got up in turn to make their request, Unsui only listened with half an ear, still trying to understand where in their match they had gone wrong, how they had given up the victory that should easily have been theirs. 

Yukimitsu's wish, for some throwing lessons from Kid, had to be phoned in to the hospital, so there was a lull in the proceedings. Unsui took a moment to scan his team. Apart from Agon, they seemed to be taking defeat relatively well. Agon himself was strangely subdued, slouched down in his chair, eyes closed, brow deeply furrowed, like he fully expected reality to have shifted back to normal the next time he opened them, and god help it if it didn't comply.

After that, one of the linemen challenged someone to a rematch in something called Street Fighter, and another one wanted to borrow some manga series Unsui had never heard of either. 

The usual sort of thing. 

Trivial requests, a gesture, a symbol. A tradition born of gifting slaves with meaningless tokens to keep them complacent, that had survived to the present day, in this ceremonial form.

Kurita was up next. "Hello," he said diffidently into the mic, to screeching feedback, until he pulled it a little farther from his face. "Hi. I don't know who to ask but... I mean, it's something that my father always wanted for me, so I thought I would just..."

"It's okay." Musashi said, putting a hand on his arm. "Just like you told me." 

Kurita turned to face Unsui and his team, cleared his throat, and said, "I'd like to meditate at Shinryuuji temple sometime." 

Even Hiruma looked taken aback. So he didn't know everything.

As his team descended into whispers around him, Unsui realized none of them was going to answer. Impatient to get this over with, he gestured for a microphone from one of the tournament staff, and stood up. "Of course, you will be welcome. Visit us anytime."

Kurita looked pleased, Hiruma looked angry, and as Unsui sat, Agon elbowed him right in the gut. Hurriedly, Unsui tipped the microphone away so it wouldn't catch Agon's inevitable growl of, "Who said he was welcome, Unko-chan? We don't want him." 

Unsui elbowed back. "The temple could use dedicated students, no matter your personal thoughts on the matter. Especially promising ones that you kicked out." 

The most interesting thing that happened was a ripple of shock when Monta pointed a finger at Hiruma and demanded to be freed. President Nakamura shook his head, lips shaping an inaudible protest, but the slave ignored him and bored his gaze into Hiruma's instead, looking ready to argue. 

Hiruma nodded at Kurita, who reached under his chair, and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes. He separated the top one from the stack, and handed it to Monta with both hands and a solemn bow of his head. Monta took it, bewildered, the wind taken out of his sails. As he slid the papers from the envelope, and read the top page, his face crumpled, and Kurita pulled him into a hug. 

When it came to Sena, Unsui wondered idly if he'd ask the same thing. Indeed, his first words were, "I have a request for my master, too. If it's okay, can I ask him in private?" 

Nakamura frowned, but nodded, and Sena went back to where Hiruma was sitting, and bent to whisper into his ear.

A second later, Hiruma burst out laughing. "If you're trying to confess your feelings, aren't you doing it to the wrong person?"

Sena stared at the ground, and after a moment, Hiruma seemed to realize he was serious. "Don't be such a brainless fucking moron, you fucking moron. If you just followed the monkey's example, you wouldn't even have to ask permission for something like that."

"I don't want freedom," Sena said, barely loud enough to be picked up by the mic still clutched in his hand. "I want to serve you, a-as long as you have use for me. Whether I'm free or not, that won't change anything."

"Fine," Hiruma said, jumping to his feet, so abruptly that Sena startled backwards. "Wish granted. Now it's my turn. Hold the mic for me, _slave_."

Sena's shoulders hunched, but when Hiruma strode to the front of the stage, he hurried after. 

A stillness came over Unsui's teammates. 

Even Agon seemed to be paying attention all of a sudden, and no wonder.

Hiruma blatantly had something nasty in mind. This entire tournament for him had been nothing but a pursuit of vengeance against one person, a single-minded quest to defeat Agon, in the place where it would enrage him most. He would have been plotting his revenge for years now, maybe since Musashi's treatment at Agon's hands, maybe even since Kurita had been kicked out of the temple. There was no limit to what venom that scheming mind could produce.

The whole team seemed to shift away from Agon, as if to avoid some fallout, while Hiruma took his time, letting the silence draw out. 

But there wasn't much he could do, when this ceremony was very much just that—a ceremony. No one had ever been forced to do much of anything they didn't want to, and even Hiruma didn't have the power to change that. 

Unsui considered saying something comforting to his twin, but he doubted it would be welcome. As if reading his mind, Agon elbowed him again. Sat up and smirked. "Spare me your concern. He can bite all he wants, I'll swat him like the gnat he is."

"My request," Hiruma said, and if possible, the audience went even quieter. Sena held the microphone even closer to Hiruma's mouth, not quite hiding that the devil's expression was serious for once, eyes fixed on their section of the stands. 

"It's for Kongo... Unsui."

And the audience erupted in whispers, or maybe it was just the team sitting around him. 

Stunned, Unsui stood for the second time, but didn't say anything. He had no idea what to say. 

Unsui was used to receiving mistaken communications meant for his brother—mail, job offers, even a marriage proposal or two—but he couldn't imagine that this was what it was. 

The dubious honor of Hiruma's attention was all his.

"Fucking monk," Hiruma said, and his face finally split into a smile. "My wish is for you to quit football. Permanently."

Nakamura had a visible groan on his face, the same as when Monta tried to ask for his freedom. That obviously wasn't something the football association was going to enforce. Hiruma knew that. Everyone knew that. It was meaningless, a waste of a wish. 

So why did Unsui feel like he'd been hit by a truck?

As Nakamura tried to take the microphone away from Sena, who clung on, Unsui slowly sank back into his seat, shock graying out his senses.

"I said what I want, fucking monk," Hiruma called, voice ringing unevenly as the mic was dragged away from him, then back, then further away again. "Will you do it? Or is this really the only thing you can imagine doing with your life?"


	54. You're still here, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it yet, Merrr has done it again with another inspired work. This time Habashira "gets" to babysit Sena. Check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520810)! 

Mamori's laughter, a bright and weightless sound, pulled Sena straight out of his exhaustion and back into his childhood—even though she wasn't even talking to him. 

"Of course there's a party!" she was saying. "We all chipped in."

After the grueling game and closing ceremonies, the team had emerged, wet, weary, sore, from the locker room, only to find themselves in an ambush. There was a bigger crowd gathered than Sena could have ever imagined, full of opponents that they'd fought and friends, maybe, that they had made, waiting to congratulate them, shake hands or bump fists, or just make noise. Thoughts of slinking home drained were replaced with talks of celebration and food.

"Mamori did most of the organizing though," Riku said. "The cream puffs alone... that's a mountain you could climb."

"You actually thought we would do it?" Musashi came out last, still toweling off his hair. He had probably just finished his habitual walkthrough to make sure no one had left a mess, and squinted owlishly at the unexpected gathering. "Beat Shinryuuji, the unbeatable?" There was nothing uneven in his voice as he said it, no stiffness to him as he casually cleaned out his ear with a finger. 

"That's how we knew you'd do it," Mamori declared. "You wouldn't be Deimon if you weren't beating unbeatable odds. Isn't that right, Hiruma?"

"Fucking right," Hiruma laughed, mouth open to flash every sharp edge of tooth. It might have looked natural to most, but Sena could tell there was a strain to it, a glint of sweat at his temple, despite the winter chill. If Sena hadn't been watching his master closely, as he always did, it would have been impossible to notice. But he wasn't taking his eyes off Hiruma, not now, and that was how he saw it. 

That must have been how Mamori did too. 

Once the conversation had moved to the location of the party, logistics for getting there, Mamori took the opportunity to slip a half-step closer. "Hiruma," she said quietly.

Without lifting his arm, Hiruma flashed a few hand signs back, low and quick, down by his thigh. 

And Mamori's face tightened. 

Flushed slightly, with anger, or maybe concern. 

Sena watched for her to make some signs back, but her hands and mouth both went flat and mute, as she forcibly smoothed out her expression, and promptly turned to herd the others off. Was that what Hiruma had asked for, with his signs? Sena slipped by her—Hiruma hadn't inched from his spot, leaned against the wall, so Sena didn't plan to leave his side.

"You coming?" Musashi turned questioningly to the two of them.

"Still looking for permission?" Hiruma said. "Can't handle the precious fucking freedom you asked for?" 

Musashi drew back as if stung—or as if winding up to punch him. 

"Don't listen to him when he's like this." Mamori came back to tug on his arm.

"See you there," he said, a shade off neutral, and after a moment, loosened enough to be pulled.

Hiruma didn't watch him go; his eyes closed, and didn't open. 

After everyone had left, Sena said quietly, "Master?" and it was enough to drag Hiruma's eyelids up, his mouth down into a frown. 

"Oh." Hiruma seemed to remember something. "You're still here, huh? Well, come on then, fucking shrimp."

Sena's relief was short-lived. At the car, he opened driver's side door for Hiruma, buckled him in, and found some painkillers in the glove compartment, which he fed into Hiruma's mouth, while he backed them out of the parking lot one-handed, barely looking in the rear-view mirror. 

Never one to question, Sena settled in for the most terrifying drive of his life. Hiruma steered mostly with his left hand, occasionally holding on with his knees. Sena was sure they'd end up in the hospital one way or another, so when the big white building finally loomed up in their windshield, it was a relief that they'd actually made it through the front entrance, rather than by ambulance around back. 

Hiruma prowled around the lobby until he spotted someone he recognized—to the petite woman's chagrin. Soon enough, he was spirited away into some ward, leaving Sena behind in the waiting room, carefully sitting with his elbows tucked in, hands on his knees. He was nearly sure slaves weren't meant to be waiting here, but nobody said anything to him, and he had nowhere else to go. 

The seats around him cycled occupants several times before Hiruma re-emerged, one arm in a fresh cast, the other holding the sling that he was clearly supposed to be wearing. He passed Sena without stopping, only threw the sling in Sena's arms and gave a short whistle. 

Sena jumped up and followed, hurrying not to be left behind. His master seemed to be in a mood. He didn't mix well with hospitals, Sena was already starting to see that.

In the parking lot, the mood only got worse, as Hiruma came to a halt in front of an empty parking spot. Probably already on his last reserve, he abruptly seemed to run out of steam, ideas, inspiration, faced with blank asphalt and empty white lines. 

"Fucking shrimp."

"Master?"

"Where's my fucking car?"

Sena was saved from having to find an answer, when a jaunty series of honks came from behind. 

Hiruma's car pulled up to them, windows rolled down, and Musashi leaned his head out, arm still slung comfortably over the steering wheel, relaxed grin on his face. "Looking for this?"

"What the fuck," said Hiruma, who hadn't found any more ability to process this.

"Free man, remember?" Musashi said. "One of the perks, I can drive like a regular person."

Silence. Then, "You fucking dumbass, your license is a million years expired by now."

"You going to report me? Get in, both of you. Back seat though, Monta called shotgun."

Monta bounced up on the other side of Musashi, and waved a plate, covered with foil. "We saved you some food!" He peeked under the foil. "Um, not that much food." He slipped out a bite of something and ate it. "Really not a lot."

Already on the move, Hiruma stopped short again. "What is that fucking monkey still doing here?"

"What are you talking about?" Monta threw the plate into the air, then remembered himself, and caught it. "We came to pick you up after we saw you drive off by yourself with a broken arm—"

Musashi shushed him. "Why would people stay with you if you don't own them?" he said. "Is that what you're thinking? Do we really have to answer that?"

Eventually, Hiruma unbent enough to open the passenger side door—and continued to hold it open, expectantly, until Monta finally gave up and clambered over the seat, into the back. 

"Here." Monta shoved the plate at Sena as he got in. It was still warm, and smelled amazing.

"Honestly, we should be giving you more shit for being such a suspicious asshole," Musashi added. "But I guess we can cut an injured guy some slack." 

He reached over Hiruma to rap his knuckles against the new cast, to Hiruma's annoyance. 

And then they went home.

***

Unsui had been waiting for twenty minutes, long enough to consider that this might be some tasteless joke or setup, by the time Hiruma finally entered the diner, with another irritating jangle of the bell over the door. 

It was a popular spot, busy enough that no one had given a second look to a guy in monk robes, sitting by himself in the corner booth, but Unsui was still impatient to get on with it. He barely suppressed the urge to follow Hiruma's leisurely, swaggering progress with a glare—especially when Hiruma stopped at a random table and began chatting with the woman sitting there.

As he contemplated one of the calming mantras they practiced at the temple, he noticed that Hiruma wasn't alone. Hiruma's body shifted, with a particularly animated gesture, to show his runner following closely behind, eyes cast downwards, fixed on Hiruma's shoes. 

No, Unsui realized. Not his runner, not here. 

As they finally reached the table, Sena solicitously pulled the chair out for his master, and then disappeared under the table, presumably to kneel at Hiruma's feet, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Off the field, he wasn't the light-speed runner who had stymied the Shinryuuji Naga—he was just a slave. 

Unsui rarely left the temple for anything but football. In a game, or watching opposing teams at practice, it was easy to mistake all the players for equals. Equally inferior to Agon, maybe. 

Moments like this, out in the real world, still managed to jar him. 

There weren't any other slaves in the diner, this wasn't the kind of clientele that kept them, but neither did Sena's behavior draw stares. Hiruma was the only one to frown down briefly at the top of Sena's head, before reaching down with his good hand, doing something under the table that Unsui couldn't see. His other hand was in a proper cast now, and he plunked it down on top of the plastic menu set out for him, making Unsui's teacup rattle in its saucer.

"Never thought you'd call," grinned Hiruma. "Took you long enough," he added, a contradiction.

"Me neither," Unsui admitted, and began fiddling with the paper napkin wrapped around his utensils. 

He'd spent the time since the match trying to put Hiruma's odd behavior out of his mind, that nonsensical wish, but he'd only succeeded in devolving to the point of obsession instead.

During meditations: Why would Hiruma waste his request on something that so obviously wasn't going to be allowed by the committee?

During training: If he was determined to waste it, why on Unsui, who was nobody? 

Scrubbing floors in penance for his inattention, while Agon got away with absence: How could he give up on the vow that he'd made? He'd sworn from childhood that he would make Agon the best player there was, would dedicate his very life to it. Who would he be if he quit football, if he broke that promise? 

In bed at night: Who would he be, indeed? 

He had been taught to meditate away his problems; failing that, it was best to face them head-on. That was why he'd finally called this meeting with Hiruma. But instead of any of the carefully measured comments he'd prepared, the first thing out of his mouth went to the heart of his obsessing: "Why me?" 

Hiruma looked like he was almost about to answer, but then he spotted a passing waitress and flagged her down instead. "Coffee," he said, and smirked as she jotted it down. "You're paying, right, fucking monk?"

"Does that have some bearing on what you order?" Unsui said warily, and got a sharp burst of laughter in response.

"So fucking cautious." Hiruma snorted, and ordered a burger. 

"Why do you care if I play football or not?" Unsui said, once the waitress had gone. "I'm not the twin you have a grudge against. I'm not even the one who got any talent to speak of. Why bother with me? Is it because you thought I was—" an easy target, he stopped short of saying, "the one you had a chance of convincing?"

"Don't I?"

The waitress came back with the coffee, forestalling Unsui's response. Hiruma tore into a pod of creamer with his teeth, and then dumped it into his coffee. Stirred one-handed, and blew out the steam, all without taking his gaze off Unsui. 

Unsui, who had the sudden unsettling thought that if he were to tear free from his brother's shadow, he'd be... adrift. He might go anywhere. To law school. To travel the world. To escape from a sport where he would never excel, and go on to pursue something he was actually good at. 

Then he shook his head. 

"You don't." He nearly got out of his seat, except then the waitress was back, with Hiruma's burger, Unsui's omelette, and he remembered he hadn't paid yet, hadn't even eaten yet, and sank back down. "The only thing I want to dedicate my life to is making the best possible player of my brother. That's all."

"Well that's pointless." Hiruma sank his teeth into his burger almost before his plate was set down in front of him. "How the fuck are you going to help the fucking dreads? You said it yourself, you got zero talent."

Unsui stiffened. He watched Hiruma chew, obnoxiously, mouth open, as the words swirled around in his head. He'd never been shy of saying as much to others, but people generally had the social niceties not to say it back. All except for Agon, who had never hesitated to remind him.

Then Hiruma said, "Or do you actually have skills that Agon doesn't have?" and the diner snapped back into focus. Hiruma had finished his burger, and was feeding fries, one at a time, to Sena under the table. A plain one, then one dipped in ketchup, then a plain one again. Unsui watched the pattern with a trance-like concentration.

"If it wasn't for you, your fucking team would have lost to us way sooner. You know that, right? Hell, maybe if Agon listened to your warnings for once, you could have won. But here you are. Instead of pursuing your own talents, you use them to help that fucking dreads instead. Hiding from others, even from him, that he has weaknesses. What kind of dumbass shit is that?"

Unsui was silent for a long time. 

"I know what you're doing," he said finally. He picked up his fork, and began using the side of it to cut into his omelette. The line came out uneven and shaky, like he'd never used a utensil before in his life. "This is your way of trying to pull the last support from Agon's life." 

It didn't need to be said that Agon had raged like a wounded animal when Hiruma and Musashi had left him. Was this to be Hiruma's final revenge on Agon? To isolate him completely? 

"Seems small, for you."

Hiruma only grinned, predatorily, and realization struck.

"This isn't it," Unsui said. "This is only a means. Once I leave, you have something else planned. Something that wouldn't succeed, if I were there." 

Unsui stood up again, filled with a sense of aimless urgency. Like he could run back to the temple and warn them of this nebulous plot that he had brushed up against, but didn't know any details of.

Like he still wanted to warn them.

"Sit back down, you fucking monk."

"If you think I'm just going to stand by, while you—"

"You never minded being a bystander before. Why start now?" 

Unsui looked down with a jolt. After Agon had been particularly rough with Musashi, Unsui had once or twice taken care of the man's injuries. Cleaning up after his brother, as always. But now, in the grim set of Hiruma's stare, Unsui read the aftermath of Musashi's treatment in a way he'd never seen on the man's body. That he'd never wanted to see.

"Will others be affected by your revenge?" Unsui said, slowly sitting back down. 

"Give me your answer, and I'll tell you exactly what it is."

Slowly, Unsui began cutting into his omelette again. The edges were already cooling, but the center was still hot and molten, and he chewed slowly, carefully—then stopped, when he tasted some sort of meat, savory and tough. 

This wasn't what he'd ordered. Unsui was a vegetarian. But after turning the options over in his mind, he shrugged and kept chewing. Swallowed. And took another bite. 

"I will resign today," he decided, halfway through the omelette. "I'll have to think how to inform the team. I've been taking care of things there for so long. I hope it's not conceited to think that they'll have a difficult time adjusting without me."

"They won't," said Hiruma, which surprisingly stung. But then he continued, "they won't ever play without you."

"Explain."

Hiruma pulled out his phone and flicked through it, barely less deft than usual with his off hand, then slid it across the table for him.

After conscientiously wiping his fingers, Unsui scrolled down the page. "These are... our sponsors?"

"Not anymore," said Hiruma, and Unsui's finger pressed down hard enough to crack the screen. In response to to seeing his phone broken, Hiruma only cackled cheerfully.

"I... don't know what came over me," Unsui said stiffly. "Allow me to replace it."

"With what money?" said Hiruma. "All your sponsors are pulling out, soon as they get my email. You won't be able to afford tournament fees. You won't even be able to pay your fucking players. Since you've already overspent, the debt will be taken out of your equipment. Your trophies, maybe. The team that fucking dreads has always taken for granted? Gone. That nice long streak of wins is going to end on one very final loss."

"Agon isn't the only one you're hurting with this plan," Unsui said. But he had to admit, Agon would be furious. 

Hiruma, for his part, didn't seem to care. Pulled the phone back, and touched the web cracked into the screen, snickering to himself. "Hey, give that fucking dreads a message for us."

"Hm?" Unsui was no stranger to passing on messages to his brother. 

"We could have done this any time. Ended you before finals, forced you to forfeit before we even played." Unsui remembered suddenly the fate of the Bando Spiders, and realized at least their team wasn't alone. 

"Why didn't you," he said tiredly, recognizing the setup that Hiruma wanted, and deciding he might as well oblige. 

"Because I wanted to beat you first, obviously."

As Unsui continued working on his omelette, he mused on this, searching for some hint of guilt within himself. 

"It's not," he said as he finished, set down his fork. "The only thing I can imagine doing with my life, that is."

Hiruma was looking under the table again, the shoulder of his good arm moving up and down. Unsui suddenly suspected that he was ruffling Sena's hair, like a pet. "Yeah?" he said absently. "Then fucking stop."

***

Back home, Hiruma settled on his bed with a grunt, and wordlessly held out his arms. Since the tournament, they'd settled into something of a routine, one that Sena thought he'd miss, once the cast came off. For the time being, he unbuttoned his master's shirt and relished in the intimacy of it, in a task that was his alone—because Hiruma didn't want to be seen this vulnerable in front of others. Sena didn't count; he was just a slave.

"Another thing," Hiruma said, as Sena replaced the button-down with a soft tee, pulling it over Hiruma's head as carefully as he could, to avoid messing up the hair. Despite his efforts, some of the spikes caught, and flattened, but he resisted the urge to straighten them; that hadn't gone well last time. 

"Check in that drawer over there. In the desk."

Obediently, Sena went to the drawer, and opened it. On the top was an envelope that looked distantly familiar, and spilled a pool of apprehension into his gut. "This, master?"

"Well go on," said Hiruma. "Open it."

The sense of foreboding was deepening, but Sena couldn't exactly refuse. He ran a nervous finger under the flap. The rasp of it detaching from the envelope was the loudest thing he'd ever heard. Inside was a sheaf of paper, half as thick as his thumb. He wasn't the fastest reader, his slow progress through the football manual could have told anyone that, but it didn't take him long to spot his name printed in most of the blanks on the page, in Musashi's neat architect's script. 

"I figured out how to do it for the rest of them, fucking tedious as hell. Figured I'd do yours at the same time. And by that I mean, I had the fucking old man do them. What are you trying to hand them back to me for? I sure as hell don't need them."

Shakily, Sena set the papers down on the desk, and did the only thing he could think of: he came over and buried his head in Hiruma's lap. He knew he shouldn't take liberties like this, but the worst had already happened. What worse could possibly come, if he shut his eyes, and dug his face in, and whispered, "Please. Please, what did I do wrong?"

A long silence met his question. 

"Just keep it, you fucking shrimp," said Hiruma finally, voice unreadable. "I don't want it taking up space here."

Taking up space. Sena flinched. 

"I-is that why? Because the tournament is over, and that's the only thing I'm here for, and now I'm just... taking up... space—because I can do better!" he added hurriedly, words jamming together in his rush. "I can serve you in other ways too, I promise, I'll earn my keep, whatever you want, please."

Sena should have known, should have tried harder to show his value after the football season ended. Instead he'd just let himself get complacent, knowing that he was outliving his usefulness, day by day, knowing that this would happen—

"These have been done for ages. I told you, I did them with the fucking monkey's," Hiruma sighed, irritated. Normally the tone would have terrified Sena, but he'd rather have punishment than the nothing that the papers promised. "He got his at the tournament. Now you're getting yours."

"Is it because of what I asked for? At the tournament?" It had been more than obvious that Hiruma had been displeased. He'd tried so hard to figure it out, from the hints Hiruma had been dropping, what he was supposed to wish for—and of course he'd gotten it wrong. If his master had only told him the right answer, he would have spoken it in a heartbeat. 

Hiruma's hand came down on his head. At first Sena thought it would push him off, but then it just settled there, the hard edge of the cast pressing a line into the back of his skull. 

"Slaves don't date. And I sure as hell don't want you fucking around with the enemy. You knew that, and you asked for it anyway."

Sena nodded miserably. "I'm sorry. You don't have to let me— I won't—" If he hadn't messed things up too badly, if he could only be allowed to take it back, he'd take whatever punishment his master wanted to give him. But the papers—Hiruma only wanted to be rid of him now. Did it mean he'd gone too far, and there was no coming back from this?

"When I first bought you, you never would have dreamed of asking for something for yourself. Now you're asking for something outrageous. You know what that is? That's progress."

Sena tried to back away, so he could put his face into the ground, but Hiruma's cast held him in place. "I won't do it again," he said quickly. "I promise I won't ask for anything again, if you just don't get rid of me, please—"

And then he froze. Because that was asking for something. 

"Progress," Hiruma repeated, and began stroking Sena's head with his fingers, within the limited confines of their cast. But it wasn't until he said, "I'm not getting rid of you," that relief flooded Sena's limbs, made him weak.

"I'll do better," he said, "I swear I will."

"Don't you know what progress means?" Hiruma said, then pressed down as Sena nearly surged off of him again with anxiety. "Never mind. Just hold on to the fucking papers."

"Yes, master," said Sena hastily, nodding against Hiruma's leg. He'd keep the papers if that was what Hiruma wanted. As long as it didn't mean—

"And don't think we're done with football yet. Spring tournament next. If you slack off, I'll kill you."

"Yes, master," said Sena again, quick and eager, and felt his spirits lift at the prospect. 

As long as Hiruma wanted to play football, he'd need Sena around. 

And Hiruma, as far as he knew, would always want to play football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy and sad to have made it to the end of this story! Flawed as it is, I'm not ashamed to say I put my whole heart into writing it. It would mean the world to me to hear from you, if only to let me know that you've made it all the way here. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Soapy Root Beer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026534) by [Merrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merrr/pseuds/Merrr)
  * [Habashira the Babysitter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520810) by [Merrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merrr/pseuds/Merrr)




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